Enjoying crunching the snow beneath his boots Sarge ventured along the street of small bars filling the west side of Schmall’s Falls lack of eating establishments catering to the needs of early risers, night owls, and swing shifters until Big Bob’s window sign on bright yellow paper touting “Sunrise Special: 2 eggs, toast & coffee for a buck” caught his stomach’s attention.
Entering the tavern currently conducting its own version of fast food service for the dawn dwellers. he stood to the side and held the door open for an exiting trio of grumpy construction workers. Toe kicking the rock salt from his boots he scouted for an empty stool at the bar crammed with white plates featuring steaming eggs, butter brushed toast and a constantly flowing, heady stream of coffee into squat thick cups vying for countertop space with slippery side dishes flashing crisp thick bacon and fat spitting sausages. After some careful navigation between the hands passing plates from the bar to the fully occupied booths, he managed to slide onto a still warm shiny red stool where the bar snuggled flush up against the far wall. Upon opening his paint speckled wool army coat, he generously contributed his share of body heat to that already creating streaking condensation on the bar’s large front window. He commenced pounding the alternate ends of an unlighted cigarette on the counter while patiently waiting for the barkeeper to take his order.
After setting down four full plates for the customers seated at the curve in the bar near the entrance, the lanky, middle-aged barkeeper smoothed a few slack grey hairs back into place with the rest of a backcombed wave and turned to make eye contact with him. “What it be today?” he demanded while wiping his hands with his waist apron.
Imitating the barkeep’s thick Polish accent Sarge replied, “Ve vant da special. Overeasy, if you please, Stanley.”
Smirking, Stanley nodded. “You gonna be a smartass today, eh? Forget it, Sarge. No mood for funny business.” Stanley scratched the order on a small pad of white paper, clipped it to the wire across the top of the serving window, then picked up the waiting filled order. Plate in hand, Stanley strode to stand across from the customer sitting beside Sarge, before setting down the plate, Stanley growled, “No mood for your funny business, either. F’n poached eggs. Not again. Messes up cook’s grill timing. Got it?”
A hoarse female voice croaked out, “You asked how I wanted ‘em and I told you. You didn’t say “no poached eggs.” Now you gonna give me my order or you wanting to eat them dead chickies yourself, Stan?”
Holding back a laugh in consideration for the barkeeper, Sarge watched Stanley scowl as he set down the platter covered with a double order of milky eggs whites wrapped around gentle hints of yellow yolk and perfectly browned toast drenched with melted butter. Right gray eyebrow arched high, Stanley silently filled the poached egg orderer’s cup with coffee. He started to work his way to the other customers, then, with the nearly full fresh pot of black coffee in his left hand he stopped and looked from Sarge to the customer sitting next to him. Stanley’s pale blue eyes flashed between the two. “You two at same time not good on Stan’s nerves. Don’t get any ideas or eggs go kaput!” Without waiting for a response, Stanley set about filling the coffee cups of the other customers at the bar.
Sarge leaned sideways to set his shoulder against the wall so he could turn and get a better look at the young woman sitting next to him. The Hudson Bay Blanket coat cut in old French Canadian trapper style drapped around her shoulders immediately culled her from the variety of working girls who frequented the bar during alcohol serving hours. It also separated her from the nearby telephone company’s swing shift working women. That left college student pulling an all nighter or some variation thereof. But the last wasn’t quite fitting the bill either in Sarge’s mind since there was no need for such creatures to venture off the perpetually buzzing college grounds for a cheap breakfast special in a working class bar. Hoarse Voice was busy poking the pointed edge of toast into what he considered an obscenely salted egg yolk. “Having a little egg with your salt, huh?”
A mass of long black hair crackling with static electricity was pushed back over a shoulder hunched inside the Hudson Bay Blanket coat, then a white face, made paler from the lack of any real sun during weeks of perpetual snow, with assessing dark brown eyes turned towards him. She sipped coffee to mix with her mouthful of eggs and toast, chewed slowly, then swallowed, all the time staring directly at him. She sniffed a little, then said, “Yep. Three spoons of sugar in my coffee too. You wanna make something of it?” Caught off guard by the effect on him of the unexpectedly sharp lines of her cheeks and bold aggressive eyes, Sarge simply shook his head of brown shaggy hair in reply and Hoarse Voice’s attention immediately turned back to her food.
Sarge watched her small fingers set a fork to work covering a slice of toast with egg, fold it over and stuff nearly all of it into her thin-lipped mouth. More salt was shaken over the remaining eggs, more sugar, along with a very generous amount of cream, mixed with the new coffee that flowed quickly into her cup via the pot wielded by the quick sighted Stanley. Questioning his interest, Sarge continued his surveillance of her liberal saltings, pokings and smearing of eggs until his own plate arrived and distance required him to ask her to pass the Tabasco sauce. She complied readily then made a point of watching him rain red sauce upon his eggs until it pooled along the plate’s upward crease. Deciding to let her know he was aware of her watching him, Sarge twirled his fork in anticipation but turned toward her, clearly waiting for some comment. None came. Unable to resist, Sarge quipped, “What? Want a taste?”
She responded by looking his long broad frame up and down, slowly taking inventory of the well-worn jeans, heavy work boots and dark grey plain sweater. “Nope. Wouldn’t dream of depriving you.”
Sarge thought the better of uttering the sexually suggestive reply that skipped to his lips. He’d had a way too long night of loading freight, hunger for a great deal more than food had been gnawing at him for months, and he already knew his overtired body wasn’t going to settle down for the deep oblivious sleep he mentally craved. Instead of verbally needling the hoarse voiced woman, he commenced slicing and swirling his eggs through the Tabasco sauce and finally satisfying his stomach. Eggs, spices and black coffee worked their usual soothing magic.
After mopping up the remaining streaks of red sauce on his plate, Sarge took note of the departing early morning rush crowd, held up his empty cup for a refill then pulled a half read paperback copy of Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency from the inside pocket of his long coat. With the still unlite cigarette now resting between his lips, he pushed his plate away and flipped through the book. As he smoothed out the creased page corner, Stanley cleared Sarge’s plate and laid a cinnamon roll wrapped in a paper napkin on the counter in front of Hoarse Voice. Taking the cigarette between his fingers, Sarge looked up just enough to allow him to see Hoarse Voice’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Standing up she shucked her black sweatered arms back into her coat sleeves, hauled a thick orange backpack off the floor and onto her stool, fished out a man’s style wallet from the pocket in its flap, laid out enough to cover the bill and the sort of tip an appreciative regular customer leaves, then yanked the Hudson Bay Coat belt tight enough to reveal a waist Sarge was frankly surprised to see considering the double breakfast special she’d just slammed down. Black straps went over both shoulders centering the pack. Her eyes slid sideways to the book in his hand just long enough to read the title as she picked up her sweet roll. When she pulled up the coat’s hood she caught him observing her in the mirror. She nodded at his reflection then turned and left.
Leaning back on his stool, Sarge watched her stop outside the tavern door while unwrapping a portion or the roll before walking off. He turned to lift his cup and found Stanley staring at him with a serious degree of curiosity as he poured himself a cup of coffee to enjoy in the current lull of customers. He set a side plate with Sarge’s usual sweet roll on it next to the paperback.
Sarge frowned at the barkeeper, shrugged then picked up his book. Sarge glared at the cover for a few moments before pulling a fiver out of his pocket and tossing it on the counter. Book in one hand, he grabbed the roll from the plate then made a fast exit leaving behind Stanley’s amused laughter.
Once outside in the snow hazy bleak excuse for morning sunshine, Sarge surveyed the street. Hoarse Voice was quickly jaywalking diagonally through the empty four way stop designated by red flashing lights. With his longer legs all that was required was a slightly quicker pace to close the half block distance between them. Setting the necessary pace, Sarge took a big bite of the sweet roll, focused his sights first on the orange back pack then her black leather boots and went in pursuit of quenching more than what overeasy eggs swimming in hot sauce could ever dream of satisfying.
What would you do if you were totally dependent upon a single monthly check of $250 to cover all your living expenses from rent, heat, electricity to food and then your check suddenly ceased arriving in your mail box without any explanation? What if you live on a reservation where there is 80-85% unemployment and your tribe is $60 million in debt? Add to the context the highest rates per population of child suicide in the world. Now imagine what goes through your mind when your single source of income becomes “invisible” and you already know you don’t have the gas to drive off the reservation to search for employment, you have no funds to find housing off the reservation, and you are the sole adult caretaker for your grandchildren. What is now going through your mind at this point?
The following information is directly from Anne Fields who has been in direct contact with people on Pine Ridge Reservation who are currently in precisely the situation presented above.
Anne Fields:
There is a new situation on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota (and presumably on other reservations) that is very dire and perhaps life threatening.
I am a white grandmother who has spent a total of 18 months on the reservation, including four months teaching in the Early Head Start program. I have friends who are directly affected by the problem and who are growing more desperate each day. So far my efforts to find information or help for them have been unsuccessful.
Each month the Bureau of Indian Affairs has been providing General Assistance grants (see below) to many residents who are desperately needy. On Pine Ridge approximately 940 people receive monthly checks of up to $250. These checks are often their only source of income and their lifeline.
In December 2012 no checks came. I spent several hours on the phone with officials at the local, regional, and national levels trying to find out what had happened. Eventually I ended up at the BIA Division of Human Services in Washington where I spoke with Bevette Hern at 202-513-7608. She told me that there had been new software which had a glitch that was holding things up. She said it was now fixed and that the Treasury would get a file transfer shortly and that the Agencies should have the money by the end of that week. This did indeed happen.
But then in March 2013 again no checks ever came and there were no notifications to the recipients. The Post Offices were besieged by people looking for their money. No checks have arrived for April 2013 and folks are seriously cold and hungry. They do not know if the money will ever come again. They have had no information from the BIA.
In an effort to try to get some information regarding these crucial funds, I tried to call Bevette to see if this is a permanent situation, only to find that she is no longer working there (even though her answering machine still uses her name). I spoke with someone who would only give her name as “Roberta” and who said that she knew nothing about the details, only that the money available for “Welfare” has been cut back. She told me that I needed to talk to the BIA Great Plains Social Services in Aberdeen, SD. I called them at 605-226-7351 and spoke with “Patti.” She told me that Central Office has not received any funds so they have nothing to give out. She recommended that I talk to the folks in Washington–the same people who directed me to call her office.
I have written to South Dakota Congresswoman Noem and Senators Johnson and Thune for clarification, but as of now I have heard nothing back from any of them.
BIA Human Services handles 6 components of Financial Assistance, which consist of:
1. General Assistance
a) An applicant must meet the criteria contained in 25 CFR 20.300 (Who qualifies for Direct Assistance)
b) Apply concurrently for financial assistance from other state, tribal, county, local, or other federal agency programs for which he/she is eligible;
c) Not receive any comparable public assistance, and
d) Develop and sign an employment strategy in the ISP with the assistance of the social service
worker to meet the goal of employment through specific action steps including job readiness and job search activities.
So, what should Anne Fields and these 940 people on Pine Ridge Reservation DO to get some information from the BIA and/or the Federal Government? Any suggestions? Even if you have no notions about how to deal with this continuing situation, please take a moment to send this information via your favorite internet social network sharing options.
Young Indigenous women are some of the most invisible and unrepresented people on Earth. That is one reason to read Lakota Woman by Mary Crow Dog, nowBrave Bird, with Richard Erdoes even though it was published in 1990. Another reason is that it won the American Book Award in 1991. Yet another reason is for the insight it provides into some of the tough issues young women on reservations continue to confront: violence, rape, alcoholism, drug abuse, racism, exploitation, poor education, grinding poverty. This is not a calm, quiet memoir of a certain time and place written by a woman looking back in nostalgia with some polite veneer of wisdom gained by mature hindsight. Lakota Woman offers the perspective of a very candid, blunt spoken, tough, and passionate young woman who makes no apologies for anything. This is a woman who now knows who she is, where she came from, and why. Part of her story includes giving birth to her first child during the siege at Wounded Knee in 1973 after refusing to leave in spite of the increasing danger. While Lakota Woman does not offer any in-depth analysis of the American Indian Movement, the Trail of Broken Treaties or the Native American Church, it does offer a no punches pulled, first person female perspective based on direct experiences with all of them– a young Lakota female perspective seldom encountered in the mainstream American culture.
I am a iyeska, a breed, that’s what the white kids used to call me. When I grew bigger they stopped calling me that, because it would get them a bloody nose. I am a small woman, not much over five feet tall, but I can hold my own in a fight, and in a free-for-all with honkies I can become rather ornery and do real damage. I have white blood in me. Often I have wished to be able to purge it out of me. As a young girl I used to look at myself in the mirror, trying to find a clue as to who and what I was. My face is very Indian, and so are my eyes and my hair, but my skin is very light. Always I waited for the summer, for the prairie sun, the Badlands sun, to tan me and make me into a real skin. (p.9)
Such are the words of Mary Brave Bird of the Brule Tribe from the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota. Consider the memoirs current teenaged women of Rosebud, Pine Ridge, Standing Rock and the Cheyenne River Reservations might share–if anyone dared put them into print. Lakota Woman might offend some, might make some very uncomfortable, and distress others. It certainly won’t bore anyone. It definitely offers a great deal to think about regarding women, culture, family, history, spirituality, politics, and values.
Maze of Injustice, the failure to protect Indigenous Women from sexual violence in the USA, PDF file of Amnesty International http://www.amnestyusa.org/pdfs/MazeOfInjustice.pdf Perhaps this report offers one explanation for the legistative difficulties faced by the VAWA. Why would non-Native men want to start allowing arrest and prosecution of the non-Native men who rape Indigenous women on reservations? No rocket science required.
Quick and dirty is the way this book review post goes today.
Who wants a werewolf story?
Who wants a love story?
Who wants a horror story?
Who wants a lot of free verse?
Who wants a L.A. story?
Who wants a dog story?
Yes, indeed, Toby Barlow’s Sharp Teethserves up horror tacos filled with hot she wolf women, blonde surfer dudes, dogs galore, mystery men, several varieties of criminals and features some very sharp teeth indeed. Add a dash of the unexpected humor along the lines of bad boys playing bridge with blue haired old ladies and this razor blade of a novel via verses will have you wondering whose really howling at the moon rising above the waves lapping sandy beaches everywhere. Is there anything easier to read than free verse? I doubt it. If you’re searching for a guilty reading pleasure please go ahead and take a bite. Beware: Barlow’s verse is served bloody rare liberally seasoned with sex and violence.
Hmm, it’s Sensual Saturday and sometimes that means a musical posting. Tell you what, if you click the link to Glaciers by Alexis M. Smith there’s music at the other end via the video playing on the novel’s homepage. Music covered now, okay? Now for those of you searching for something sensual for your Saturday there’s this lovely little novel just stuffed full of stories of scopes large and small. Alexis M. Smith has inked a wickedly sweet little tome with an expanse far beyond its 174 pocket-sized pages. Some folks might be inclined to savor this book tidbit by tiny tidbit over a week’s time. Some other folks, like myself, may savor it whole in the course of a single day of word craft pleasure-seeking. While there’s nothing erotic about Smith’s Tin House Books publication, her prose elicits a certain sort of response some of us experience when stimulated by wordcraft so easy-going that one has no sense of any effort on the writer’s part at all. Glaciersreads like gently flowing stream water encountering a rapid or two along the way to keep you on your toes.
So what’s it about? Love, longing, the past, the future, Amsterdam, war, families, Portland, storytelling, Alaska and glaciers of several sorts. Smith writes about a young woman, a young man, a library, and a war. Yet another anti-war book of the most subtle yet most earnest kind.
Her eyes close, and she begins to drift. She thinks of these things: Spoke and the war; the oil in Alaska and the oil in the Middle East’ the glaciers melting’ and the water that connects them all. the glaciers will melt and the water will rise. Everything will be washed though. All the young lovers in their hats and party dresses. All the plane trees and the elms. All the tall houses. All the narrow brick lanes and city squares. Glaciers take the cities, cities take the architecture, the architecture takes the bodies. (p. 151)
Glaciers melt. Glaciers are melting. Keep in mind ever-expanding scopes.
Take note: I discovered this literary delight via World Book Night 2013–it’s one of the selections for the free books being given away. What a wonderful reading gift! http://www.us.worldbooknight.org/books/2013
The various thoughts, and Simon’s poem, posted concerning time in “a temporal tidbit’ are so delightful to me that I’m giving them a posting all their own. Thanks to everyone who visits my blogcasa–those who leave their cybertracks via comments and those who remain invisible. All are much appreciated.
“For us convinced physicists, the distinction between past, present, and future is only an illusion, albeit a persistent one.” ~Albert Einstein
What happens when we let go of the human construct of “time”?
Given how dependent people are upon their mobile devices to maintain contact with…a connecting in time behavior…such a suspension would no doubt create utter chaos for many.
Thought, linear thought, ceases As time ceases. Identity of self Ceases Story ceases Focus ceases. Human ceases But Perhaps not Awareness Perhaps not Amusement. Centre Becomes circumference Ever expanding Or eternal A flower Blooming On a prairie Containing galaxies. Time Being nothing But a measure Of space. Space, The time it takes Between The reaching of edges.
I’m counting on Einstein and the illusion of time – I like the idea that from birth to death is like a piece of string in time – always there in the space time continuum and able to be accessed at any point if given the right conditions; and maybe the strings of life can overlap and we can jump between strings and vice versa (or something like that – hahaha) – what I am sure of is that humans are wrong about most things.
Time is an illusion built by men to create the basis to a society of order in every possible way. But I do understand that a lot of people would get vertigo just by the thought of that.
Certainly chaos would follow, however, once everyone calmed down, we might find we are present in each moment more instead of deferring to some other point in the future.
Recently I shared with some friendlies that I was reading Nick Turse’s Kill Anything ThatMoves, The Real American War in Vietnam. So far only one friendly has responded to my friendly email and that was basically to share the information that they had already read some of the many books on the Vietnam War–hence, implying that they weren’t interested in reading another tome. So I thought, yes, why indeed would anyone whose has attempted to make some sense out of a seemingly senseless waste of lives want to read Turse’s latest book? Why? I believe the answer involves the Vietnamese Civilians all too often callously dismissed as Casualties of War. Damn this sounds familiar. Care to insert Afghanistan Casualties of War? Iraqi Casualties of War? Pick any war and couple it with casualties. Civilians as totally expendable human resources is not a new concept. It’s been around a very long time. By the way, if you think this doesn’t pertain to you in any way, shape or form, please do think again. Why? Because unless you are part of the military forces you are indeed a civilian to be treated with absolute contempt by those with no regard for the tenets of the Geneva Convention–that nice little old-fashioned little agreement about how to treat people during any modern war. Somehow I doubt the Geneva Convention agreement is part of either a drone’s programming or of the human charting its course. It certainly has no value to those who send soldiers to wars. Hmm. Might it be helpful to consider the military forces at work in Vietnam as precursors to current drones? Perhaps. But there are serious limitations to drones conducting military strikes as drones are incapable of rape and torture. At least I think they are –so far. Have no doubt that some computer programmer somewhere is hard at work solving these drone limitations. Too bad that creative brainpower isn’t invested in something like combating pollution.
Now back to Turse’s tome which is all about the standard operating procedure of murder, rape and torture of Vietnamese civilians whose “hearts and minds” were supposedly being saved from the communist menace. Why read this book?
In Vietnam, where the “lives” of the deceased are believed to be inextricably intertwined with those of the living, it is thought that those who die a “bad death” may be forced to suffer as “wandering ghosts,” trapped in a limbo between our world and the land of the dead. In this shadow land, they forever reexperience the violence that ended their lives, unable to attain peace until the living truly acknowledge them and the fate they suffered.3 The idea of such wandering ghosts is an unfamiliar one for most Americans, but we should not be too quick to dismiss it. The crimes committed in American’s name in Vietnam were our “bad death,” and they have never been adequately faced. As a result, they continue to haunt our society in profound and complex ways. (p. 261)
Turse makes the case that it’s high time Americans quit turning a blind eye to the dark side of our history in war, politics and business. It’s time we all took a long hard straight on look at the military industrial complex that strives to rule the world with an iron fist. With knowledge, however nasty and unpleasant it may be, comes power. There’s a very important war emerging in the world involving everyone on the Earth. It helps to know one’s enemy. The enemy has left quite a few revealing footprints. Some of them lay in the history of the war waged on the children, women and men of Vietnam. There are older footprints, newer ones and ones currently underway. What will it take for “us” to change how we view casualties of war–and war itself? What will it take for “us” to refuse to play the game of murder, rape, torture of our fellow human beings just because some power-hungry egomaniacs demand we play? Don’t forget “we” are all totally expendable–our sons, husbands, wives, daughters, mothers, fathers, all our relations are absolutely of no account in the war games.
So yes, read Nick Turse’s book – and learn why the Winter Soldiers threw their medals at Congress. It’s not a fun read. It’s not enjoyable. It’s not a “feel good” book. It is an important book.
Much thanks to Roxie for her very generous gift of art supplies to Cheryl Locke’s elementary class on the Pine Ridge Reservation. My poem, as promised, on topic of Roxie’s choice.
Visit Roxie’s blogcasa for many things writing/publishing related–with good humor too. Sorry, not the Good Humor Ice Cream Bars–yet. Though she may figure out how to link us up with those too soon enough! http://roxieh.wordpress.com/
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slpmartin said,
January 21, 2013 at 8:55 pm ·
Given how dependent people are upon their mobile devices to maintain contact with…a connecting in time behavior…such a suspension would no doubt create utter chaos for many.
simonhlilly said,
January 21, 2013 at 10:33 pm ·
Thought, linear thought, ceases As time ceases. Identity of self Ceases Story ceases Focus ceases. Human ceases But Perhaps not Awareness Perhaps not Amusement. Centre Becomes circumference Ever expanding Or eternal A flower Blooming On a prairie Containing galaxies. Time Being nothing But a measure Of space. Space, The time it takes Between The reaching of edges.
Gabrielle Bryden said,
January 23, 2013 at 4:33 am ·
I’m counting on Einstein and the illusion of time
– I like the idea that from birth to death is like a piece of string in time – always there in the space time continuum and able to be accessed at any point if given the right conditions; and maybe the strings of life can overlap and we can jump between strings and vice versa (or something like that – hahaha) – what I am sure of is that humans are wrong about most things.
labellestudio said,
January 23, 2013 at 10:09 am ·
Time is an illusion built by men to create the basis to a society of order in every possible way. But I do understand that a lot of people would get vertigo just by the thought of that.
roos said,
January 23, 2013 at 7:51 pm ·
Freedom; eat when you feel hungry, sleep when tired, work when you are full of energy or inspiration, no more dead-line, no more burn-out.
Brad said,
January 24, 2013 at 7:39 am ·
What happens when we let go of the human construct of “time”? According to Einstein, everything happens at once.
artistatexit0 said,
January 28, 2013 at 5:06 pm ·
Certainly chaos would follow, however, once everyone calmed down, we might find we are present in each moment more instead of deferring to some other point in the future.