It ain’t easy being Indian... Figure it out Redneck America

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By Ricey Wild
News From Indian Country 11-08

I am only here now cuz three years ago I survived a hurricane. A giganto hurricane on the Mexican Riviera (Yucatan Peninsula) that turned out to be the strongest, longest, slowest moving and the absolutely most gargantuan of all hurricanes as yet recorded in human history: Hurricane Wilma.

Gawd, it was so cool, afterwards I mean. Bring me back! Bring me back! After the hurricane passed, I explored the Caribbean beach all by my lonesome, picking up shells and pieces of coral reefs that Wilma’s fury had whipped up and brought to shore. While exploring the beach I found a walking stick and eventually sat on a rock in what had been a pretty place when a sand crab scurried out and scared the honey out of me.

During that time I acquired a whole buncha freckles which I did so not want. Then I barely made it back to the States. A week after Wilma,  my family and me finally got an American flight to go home. The Fam all went ahead of me to board the plane, and when it was my turn I offered my passport to the ticket-taker. He didn’t let me through. This guy made me wait while he had other people come and check my passport. They all hemmed and hawed, whispered, looked at me repeatedly and peered at my passport... I was terrified, it was surrreal, ludicrous, that I would be stuck in a country where I LOOKED like the locals, but don’t speak the language! Not even Spanglish.

Well, obviously I made it back. I bring that experience up again cuz well, it was awful and wonderful at the same time. Talk about introspection, and accounting for your own life and decisions! I wrote some “goodbye I love you” letters. Wish I had them now. What would you write and who would you write it to?

By the time you read this all the Hulla and the Balloo of the 2008 election will be over and we Indians will have a new president. My sincere hope is that the election was not stolen, (againx2), by the Republicans. If so, that was definitely me you saw out rioting and smashing republican things. Stuff like welfare for billion dollar corporations, unneccessary wars and the resulting deaths and injuries; Wall Street’s looting of the American People. There’s big oil, Halliburton, Pharmaceutical companies and Republican VP hopeful Sarah Palin’s $150,000 clothes allowance, so far.

Why do we have to pay for her mega-wardrobe? OMG. You can dress a pig up and put lipstick on it, but... you know. If it walks like a pig, smells like a pig then it must be a pig! Figure it out redneck America.

 

I recently made my own dearest Mumzie cry, sob in fact. Yep. That was not my intent but I don’t regret it one bit, nuh-uh! Omi’s mouth was open wide, gasping for air and she repeatedly wiped her eyes and prid’ner lost her breath. What did Mz Wild do to put her usually stoic, mild-mannered and inhibited mother into such hysterics? What sort of daughter am I?

All right ‘den. I’ll ‘fess up in print. I recently adopted a puppy, one of those tiny, furry, long white curly haired “foofy” poodley-put-em-on-the-end-of-a-stick-dust-moppy-type dogs. I know. My previous idea of a rez dog was that it had to be big, barky and intimidating, and it for sure hadda be a mutt.

I admit now I have always privately sneered at foofy little dogs. My thoughts were this... what the heck good are they? They wouldn’t even make a decent stew if you had to consume them. And, can they shred and then eat intruders and then later politely poop in your neighbors yard? Hah? Hah?! No. They would poop in your shoe if you let them. I am a pet lover, but have never understood the appreciation for foofy dogs until now.

Mitzi showed up precisely when I needed her most. She is a scrappy, devoted little angel who has helped me get through some of the most difficult times of my life. Talk about woman’s best friend, not to take anything away from my three cats, who all fawn upon me and adore me. Well, when I feed them anywayz. Then I wait on them paw and foot, craving affection which they dole out discriminatingly.

Now, Mitzi, on the other paw, greets me upon my arrival at home with unabashed delight and glee. Prior to her arrival, the Pink One’s evil dogs across the road have always yapped at my every movement. I feel like a celebrity every time I leave the house or come home, they being the puppa-razzi who marks my every move. Sometimes I wish I could moon them, give those little rats a real reason to bark.

So I made me Mumz cry. Mitzi was getting very dreadlocked and she didn’t look so gosh darn cute anymore, she appeared totally homeless. These people said they would groom her but didn’t come through, so I took the scissors in to my own hands. A snip snip here, a cut snip there, a whoops and OH SHOOT now I gotta even her fur out there... and right there... Well, I’m glad to report she is all still in one peice, just a bit uneven. Her new look took a bit of getting used to on my part, and I told my Mom over the phone what I had done, trimmed Mitzi up a bit.

We went to visit Omi and when she saw the Mitz? OMG. She completely lost it and went into utter hysterics laughing and wiping her eyes, saying incoherent things that I took to mean I had not done such a great job of my first attempt at dog grooming. At first I kinda “heh-heh-heh-d” with her but after quite some time I became mortified. Mitzi didn’t look THAT bad, did she? Does she?

My Mom finally caught her breath long enough to say, “You told me you cut her some, I didn’t realize how bad!” Well, neither did I.

It ain’t easy being Indian no matter what. It is harder for a foofy Indian dog who has an Indian owner who does not know how to weild scissors. That may be why a lot of us keep long hair.

 

 

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