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Archive for March, 2012

Call Me Bob

Chief Sitting Bull

Daddy!

For the umpteenth time this month, I’ve come across yet another white anglo-saxon claiming to have the blood of Native Americans running through their veins. The blood is always mentioned in vague terms, the ancestor never actually identified. The one commonality is that  these pale-faced wannabes are always adamant concerning the actual tribe from which they originate. They may not know if it was a great-granny or a second-cousin-twice-removed, but there is no hesitation that they are of solid Cree/Cherokee/Navajo/etc. stock. For the sake of full disclosure, I must confess that I, too, have made the claim of bearing the blood of some long-lost Cherokee relative.  I can’t help but wonder if there is some kind of reverse racism going on here. Are we caucasions so sensitive about having taken over this continent that we somehow harbor a hidden need to prove our right to be here? If everyone I knew who claims to be part-Sioux really were part-Sioux, it is hard to imagine that there would not be Indian casinos sprouting up like weeds on reservations in every valley of this country. Oh, that’s right. Never mind.

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Subversive Snowman

Every year, at least one Christmas decoration manages to avoid the return trip into the darkest corners of the garage. This year is no exception. Where does he hide? In plain sight, that’s where.
I’m told the Norwegians have a term for the phenomena of no longer seeing your own home: House-blind. I admit it. I am house-blind. I no longer see the plastic baby gate, the door-knob wrapped in scotch-tape (don’t ask) or the pile of orphaned sunglasses on the shelf in the entryway. And every year, as Easter approaches, I discover something leftover from Christmas. I pass by without seeing it for weeks or even months. Of course, I don’t haul out the ladder to get into the Christmas storage bins for just on item. I stash the sneaky reindeer or snowman in the back of a kitchen cupboard and forget about him. And so his break for freedom ultimately backfires. Yes, he escapes the dreaded eleven-month imprisonment in the garage, surrounded by spiders and cobwebs. But he also risks being relegated to a lonely existence for years to come behind the cans of creamed corn that nobody eats. Take that, Snowman.

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