A Native ‘Rape Culture’

‘The connection is there and it’s gut-wrenching’

Bottom Line: Following a startling, impromptu public accusation of systemic sexual harassment, the Navajo Nation is taking action.

It was not exactly what the Navajo Nation Council expected when they sat down for their weeklong, quarterly session in Window Rock, Arizona on July 20.

But at that session, the lone female among the council’s 24 delegates, Amber Kanazbah Crotty, spoke publicly—and tearfully—about her experiences as a target of sexual harassment and assault.

Crotty said she has endured vulgar verbal treatment and sexual innuendo during her tenure of more than 18 months.

“It was not just comments, but also being physically violated,” Crotty said during a phone interview with ICTMN. “This was not comfortable for me to talk about. This was the last thing I wanted to say to the council because of the vulnerability and shame, but no woman, no man, should have to be in this situation.”

During council sessions, delegates typically are given leeway to talk about whatever is on their minds. Nonetheless, Crotty’s remarks took her male colleagues by surprise.

“We’re talking about rape culture,” she said. “The connection is there and it’s gut-wrenching. It hurts in the gut when you have to go through this behavior.”

Crotty’s comments come as women across Indian country are being subjected to sexual violence at more than twice the national rate. A recent study by the National Institute of Justice revealed that 56 percent of Native women experience sexual violence in their lifetime. On the Navajo Nation alone, more than 300 rapes were reported in 2013.

Just hours after Crotty spoke, Navajo Nation President Russell Begaye launched a review of policy and how it is implemented in workplaces across the reservation. On August 1, along with Vice President Jonathan Nez and Acting Chief Justice Allen Sloan, Begaye signed an executive order mandating sexual harassment training for employees of all executive divisions and departments, the judicial branch, and local chapter service coordinators.

“We began immediately to collect information and study what the policies are and how they’re being implemented,” Begaye said in an interview. “I knew that what was in place—what was being implemented—[indicated] we were not where we should be.”

Navajo Nation President Russell Begaye and Chief Justice Allen Sloan sign an executive order mandating sexual harassment training for employees of all executive divisions and departments, the judicial branch and local chapter service coordinators. Courtesy Navajo Nation

The executive order instructs all tribal employers to review the Nation’s sexual harassment policy, which defines harassment, outlines procedures for addressing it and identifies disciplinary actions. “The idea is to provide a safe and productive workplace for all employees,” Begaye said. “I want everyone to feel safe and be able to work in wholesome environments.”

The Navajo Nation Council was not included in the executive order. But it is working to address the problem on its own terms, said Speaker LoRenzo Bates. The council took Crotty’s complaints “very seriously,” he said, and lawmakers will begin formal discussions next month.

“We are definitely concerned about this,” Bates said. “We are working closely with Delegate Crotty to move toward solutions.”

Although the executive order simply enforces existing laws, Crotty said it is a step in the right direction: “All the departments are required to review the policy and implement what’s already on the books. But it’s taking it out of autopilot. It’s carving out a space to have these discussions so we can address the systemic violence that we see on the Navajo Nation.”

Crotty, a lifelong advocate for women and girls, took office in January 2015 and sits on the Council’s Sexual Assault Prevention Committee. Her remarks, she said, resonated across the reservation, yielding dozens of messages and pleas from other women.

“We need to look at what creates this environment,” she said. “We have people who think they can make comments or physically assault someone, and when this is happening at the highest levels of government, there’s no question why we’re seeing this in the communities.”

The Navajo are traditionally a matriarchal society, yet women continue to be underrepresented in Navajo government. As a lawmaker, but also as a woman, Crotty is calling for significant long-term solutions.

“The thread that binds us together as women should not be the violence that inflicts us all,” she said. “It should be health, community and family.” http://bit.ly/2b1YsVL

The Children Of Geronimo

‘We’re still here, we’re not gone, we’re still alive’

Bottom Line: Two living descendants of the legendary Geronimo are defined at least partly by his legacy—but they also wear it lightly.

The first time Robert Geronimo became aware of his famous great-grandfather was in kindergarten.

“A kid comes up to me and says, ‘I want to beat up a Geronimo.’ I said, ‘I haven’t done anything to you, you haven’t done anything to me.’ The kid threw a punch and I returned it, and we both ended up in the principal’s office.”

From then on, his grandparents taught him to read between the lines of accounts of his great-grandfather as a blood-thirsty killing machine, or even as a “chief” leading his people.

“It wasn’t a dictatorship, everyone there had a say in deciding what was going to happen, including the women,” said Robert, 47. “Caught between the Caucasian and Mexican forces, they had no choice but to fight. There was nowhere else to go.”

Robert, who holds a degree in math and computer science from Western New Mexico University in Silver City, works in the Human Resources Department at the Inn of the Mountain Gods, the tribe’s resort and casino in Mescalero, New Mexico. His specialty is statistics, and he’s responsible for filing unemployment claims. There may be the occasional boring day, but he’s grateful to have shepherded his offspring to maturity.

“Geronimo had six wives and many children,” he reflects, “but our line was the only one not killed.”

His son, Robert Samson, operates the mountain resort’s zipline and is happy with his job, even when guests sometimes scream “Ger-on-i-m-o!” as they’re flying through the air (“He just laughs, he’s cool with it”). Daughter Kristalynn Rose is a senior at the Art Institute in Phoenix, majoring in game design. Eldest Lauren Marie is mother to Robert’s 3-year-old grandson Wyatt McKinzey and works in the Inn’s housekeeping department. Her passion is beading, learned from her grandmother.

As his kids were growing up, during car trips around the Southwest or at the holiday dinner table, Robert conveyed the main point about his family’s legacy: “We never wanted war, but we were exceptionally good at it.” And he insists they never surrendered. “The only reason they came in was because the cavalry threatened to kill everyone. And with good reason, they believed them.”

In Robert’s view, Geronimo didn’t stop being a leader after imprisonment. In fact, quite the opposite: “He became the best leader of all when he was in prison, a peacekeeper. Apaches wanted to tear each other apart because some had been scouts for the cavalry. Geronimo pacified them, told them, ‘The past is the past.’”

If Robert could speak with his famous ancestor, he would tell him this: “Be proud, we’re still here, we’re not gone, we’re still alive and doing decently well.”

Hope Geronimo, who is Robert’s niece, feels that some people
are scared of her. Kerri Cottle

At 21, Robert’s niece Hope is the youngest medicine woman among all the Mescalero Apache. She wonders if she received some of her ancestor’s spiritual gifts.

“He was somebody who had visions, I think I do sometimes,” she said. “I call out something and next thing you know, it happens.” She feels as if her tribe’s traditional practices “picked her.” And while she embraces that honor, the gift comes at a social cost.

“Something I’ve noticed, people have gotten scared of me. There’s times I can feel something’s going to happen, and when it does people freak out on me. So I’m quiet, I won’t say anything, keep it to myself. But I think that was something passed on from him.”

Hope would not hesitate to seek him out as a teacher. “I have so many questions about everything, and he would explain it all to me.”

Her grandparents always taught her that Geronimo wasn’t primarily a leader; he was a medicine man. They also instructed her to include him in her prayers. “Now that he’s a spirit, he’s a really powerful medicine man. I ask him to help guide me.”

It is the tribe’s tradition to name a boy child after his father, so her son will not carry the name forward. “But he has Geronimo’s blood in him, no matter what anyone has to say.”

What Hope most dreams for is that her son will also be involved in traditional practices. “On his dad’s side, the family owns a Crown Dancing troupe. I want him to be part of that. And with me doing this, and doing it more, he’ll always be with me.”

Hope doesn’t deny that she conducts both her parental and medicine woman duties with a grave sense of responsibility. “I wouldn’t want to be a disappointment to my ancestors.” http://bit.ly/2bSVcHP

The Artist As Activist

‘We do not see two different worlds’

Editor’s Note: The Diné musician, traditional dancer, silversmith—and anarchist—Klee Benally was in Paris recently to perform a few concerts and present his new independent feature film Power Lines.

Raised in Black Mesa, Arizona by his Russian-Polish folk musician mother and his Navajo medicine man and hoop dancer father, Benally learned the traditional ways early on. As a teenager, he co-created the band “Blackfire” with his siblings Jeneda and Clayson and played with them for 20 years.

Self-taught, he explains his approach to his culture through music thus: “There is no separation between art and culture in Diné existence.” Before leaving for the London Camden Fringe Festival’s event on “Indigenous resistance and liberation,” Benally shared his views on music, activism and cultural stereotypes.

***

How did your parents meet?

They met in Los Angeles, where my mother was working in a political club for Hopi elders. She then moved to the reservation, where we were raised on Black Mesa, with no electricity, or water, in a very remote place close to a small town, Pinon. My father is a medicine man and very early, we were taught traditional practices, ceremonies, dances and singing.

My father has a great saying: “We do not see two different worlds.” So, it is an interesting question, because when on tour in Europe with Blackfire, we went to Bialystok, in Poland, the native place of my mother’s family, and felt no connection with it.

Did you start playing music because of your mother?

We could not touch my mother’s instruments when we were younger. (Laughs) But we began to listen to tapes from the late 80’s, including the punk rock culture. We started to play very young, to convey our messages, and express our frustrations, on social issues, like families resisting forced relocation, and the removal of Navajos, in the context of the Navajo and Hopi land dispute of 1974.

And now you live in Flagstaff, close to the San Francisco Peaks?

Yes, I felt a calling to stay in Flagstaff, to be a consistent force so that the area is protected. The San Francisco Peaks is one of the six sacred mountains for the Diné, each one under threats, for resource extractions, recreation and skiing. Since 1996, I participated in the effort to stop this development, protesting, praying. And I made a documentary in 2004, The Snowball Effect. In 2002, they permitted the ski area to expand, and we continue to struggle to stop the development at the Peaks.

We went back a few weeks ago, because of a new extension and were threatened with trespassing. But how can we be? My whole family has been part of the protest, my father addressing the impact on human health.

Among all your interventions, which one was the worst?

They are all bad. But it is not so much about the interventions. The most traumatizing is to see this holy mountain, where we pray, and where the pipelines are digging, destroying hundreds of trees and again two weeks ago.

Could you have been a medicine man?

The process of learning and practicing is through apprenticeship. I help work with people, but I would never say I am.

But don’t you represent a new generation of medicine men, as a global and environmental activist?

This is an important observation. Among traditional people, everybody has their own way. So we are all healers, or have a capacity to heal, when there is an imbalance in the world. The foundation of Navajo philosophy is the blessing way, to keep balance with other beings and ourselves. If you do not care for the land, it is not going to sustain you. As long as the society values the land as a commodity, we have a problem; global warming is a syndrome of imbalance with the earth, a consequence of society’s war against Mother Earth.

Among all the protests, which one matters most?

The struggle for our cultural survival—from our ancestors to the future generation, so we can still exist. So whether [it is] an auction, the destruction of a holy site, fracking, forced relocation, sacred sites, racial profiling, pollution, all those issues need attention. Like in Phoenix, where some Navajos were meeting Donald Trump. We protested, as it was inappropriate, like a tacit support.

That is why I focus on providing media support and training with “Outta Your Backpack Media”, an Indigenous media center in Flagstaff for high school students from 15 to 20, where we teach film and media. Because it is important for the youth to understand their potential and how social media plays a role in reinforcing racism through stereotypes.

How do you see racism today?

Until the ‘60s, there were signs in some places saying, “No Indians or dogs allowed.” Today, every year, the Flagstaff annual police report indicates the number of arrests. And every year, half of the arrests concern Natives.

So there is a problem. Either it is racial profiling, or one in two would be a criminal. And the city council allowed the contract on the San Francisco Peaks—a short-term profit on the mountains, a place of cultural value to Indigenous nations. So racism is still there, and a lack of care for our values.

What are some of your projects?

I am focusing on my feature film release, Power Lines, which I consider a big accomplishment and which took many years of work. We are doing a tour and some screenings in the reservations—and in Europe, addressing the issues of cultural patrimony, like the auctions of sacred items.

[It’s] a real problem, as some people do not understand that it is not proper to share their pictures. Connecting internationally is important, as all over the world people are struggling for social justice.

What was the European audience response like?

There is more appreciation here for independent music and art, a different understanding of Indian struggles, like the Leonard Peltier’s story. They would know more here than in the United States! (Laughs) There is an interesting dynamic, more interest and awareness.

Of course, it is hard to generalize, as some people fetishize us. But you find more political organizations in Europe than in the United States, and a bigger history of social and political organizations.

Don’t you think that Native status is changing with globalization, and a different picture is taking place today, because of social media and international networking?

Globalized resistance is critical and occurring today. That is why I am here—to find support, and let people know that being engaged in struggling against racism is part of the same fight. And over the years I found a lot of support, singing, talking to small venues, breaking stereotypes about Native peoples. Interacting on a personal level can be powerful. And being able to demonstrate, through petitions, as it is important that the world watches: as marginalized communities, we face certain issues.

But, yes. When people pay attention internationally, we are not alone in our struggle. http://bit.ly/2bso8Ws

How Did I Miss That?

Monster snakes in Maine, an invasion of lesbian farmers and the stranger who found friends in death

Rush Limbaugh is sounding the alarm that Barack Obama is paying lesbians to become farmers and so infiltrate the last bastion of conservatism.

Everybody knows The Gay is contagious.

* * *

Since June, Mainers have been on the lookout for a giant snake said to be over 10 feet long. The Westbrook, Maine Police Department issued a press release with an attached photo of the beast, dubbed “Wessie.” The witness who reported the first sighting claimed it slithered off into the Presumpscot River.

Maine is pretty far north for a snake of that size, and the Wessie story provoked a lot of laughs—until last week, when a shed snakeskin over 10 feet in length was found near the Presumpscot. Speculation has centered on a pet python that either escaped or was turned loose.

* * *

Great Big Story introduced the hyacinth macaw by calling it “the biggest and bluest parrot in the world.” It’s an eye-catching animal, but the purpose of the introduction is a warning that the species is endangered by habitat shrinkage and poaching for the pet trade. A pet hyacinth macaw can set you back over $10,000.

No word if any have been spotted in Maine.

* * *

The Washington Post spent quite a bit of effort tracing charitable donations Donald Trump promised to make from his own money as he fired people from Celebrity Apprentice. The Post tracked down 21 separate promises of personal donations totaling $464,000.

In one case, the money never showed up. In two other cases the charity refused to confirm or deny. In the remaining 18 cases, donations appeared not from Trump but from the production company running the TV show or the Trump Foundation.

Trump has not given a dime to his namesake foundation since 2008—unless you count an appearance fee Comedy Central paid in 2011. In 2012, NBC (the network that aired Celebrity Apprentice) made one large gift to the foundation that would have been enough to cover all of Trump’s promises. Asked whether that was their purpose, NBC declined to comment.

Had Trump released his tax returns, all his charitable donations would be in a nice list on Schedule A.

* * *

The Austin American-Statesman reported that students opposed to the new law that permits carrying pistols on campus will protest by attaching sex toys in a variety of colors to their backpacks. Honors student Ana López called the protest “fighting absurdity with absurdity.”

The organizers’ call for donations of dildos amassed over 4,000 of the fake phalluses. On a Facebook page devoted to the protest, the dildos are called “[j]ust about as effective at protecting us from sociopathic shooters, but much safer for recreational play.” The rallying tweet is #CocksNotGlocks.

* * *

KVUE reported on a new app I wished for when I was teaching full time. It’s called Pocket Points. Aimed at students, it scores one point for every 20 minutes the user stays off the time-sucking smart phone. Created in 2014 by a student at Cal State-Chico, the app is in use at over 100 college and high school campuses.

The quality of the prizes depends on the businesses that sign up in the vicinity of the school. Students at Cal State-Sacramento, for example, can choose among four locations of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.

When I started to freak out over the potential impact on my weight problem, my cousin Ray Sixkiller reassured me about my diet: “There’s an app for that!”

* * *

Ora Golda Weinbach posted on Facebook that a funeral was to take place the next day attended only by her father—the presiding rabbi—and the funeral director. About 30 people showed, including people willing to be pallbearers for someone they never knew.

Rabbi Elchanan Weinbach regretted he could offer no eulogy because he knew nothing about Francine Stein, who had walked on at age 83. He learned later that she had been a musician and had taught at the Julliard School of Music.

Props to the people who showed up to bury a stranger. http://bit.ly/2bEGKFB