Author: amy mondloch

I am many things. I am a farmer's daughter, an activist, an educator, a mentor, an organizer, a person who cares about this place that we inhabit, a member of a community-- of many communities actually, a resident of a small Midwestern town, a little sister, an aunt, a friend, someone who likes to play with art supplies and spend time outdoors, a believer that people can create positive change, and a writer.

500 Years of Genocide

· Leave a comment ·

I went to listen to the senior seminar of a student that I’ve had the good fortune to work with over the past few months today.  Quinn will be graduating with a degree in psychology and was speaking to the problem of suicide in Native American communities in the U.S. and the connection to adverse childhood experiences (ACEs) and inter-generational trauma.

Her presentation was excellent overall and gave me something particularly new to think about.  I’ve heard the comparison over the years between the holocaust and Native genocide. Quinn pointed out a key difference.  Many of the survivors of the holocaust were able to leave the concentration camps when the war was over.  That’s not an option in this case, at  least not for the vast majority.

I am reminded of my old friend Walt Bresette. Walt was Anishinaabe from the Red Cliff Indian Reservation on the shores of Lake Superior.  He would often go around speaking to groups about mining and other environmental issues and he would tell these largely non-Native groups– We must come to recognize this place as our home. We don’t do that.  We tend to believe that if we don’t live here we can live there.  It’s not that way for the Anishanaabe.  For the Anishanaabe this place is home.  This was where the creator led them, to this place where the food grows on water, that food we call wild rice.

So, we look at the history of Native people in the U.S. forced into small corners of their home,  these corners we call reservations, as part of the torture.  So, on the reservation is the place of torture because it is what remains of the home and off the reservation is the place of torture because it is the part of the home that was stolen.

What do we do with that?

I’m thinking about all this not only because of Quinn’s presentation, but because I lost an old friend and mentor this past week.  He was shot.  His nephew shot him.  A middle-aged Indian had his brains blown out by a somewhat younger Indian.  Why? No one really knows.  I doubt the nephew really even fully knows why he pulled that trigger.

What I do keep thinking is that while that young man pulled the trigger, a whole society, a society of which I am a part, murdered my friend.

The stealing of land, the failure to tell the truth of history, the economic, environmental, and social acts of destruction aimed toward the Indigenous people of this land for the past 500+ years, told that young man who he is.  Those actions helped him define his own view of himself and determine his response to the world.  Every action leads somewhere.  Quinn spoke today of inter-generational trauma and ACEs impact on the high levels of suicide in Native American communities.  I suspect the same is true for acts of violence and for deaths due to drug and alcohol overdoses as well.

Until we, as a society, really deeply and sincerely address those underlying causes, until we speak the truth of the history,  mourn together, and change our actions, we are still engaging in genocide every day and every moment of each day.

The Times They Are A Changin

· Leave a comment ·

I was reminded this morning in a Facebook post by my friend, long time activist David Newby, that 2018 marks the 50th anniversary of the height of the protests against the Vietnam War. He was noting how 50 years ago it was college aged people leading the way and today it’s even younger people taking the lead.  He found great hope in that.

I find hope in that as well.  I find hope there because of the David Newby’s of the world.  When I was young activist/ organizer in the 1990’s, learning the trade in Wisconsin in places like Stevens Point and Madison, I was meeting people like David, Jim Missey, Betsy Lawrence and many others who had begun their political engagement in the Civil Rights and Anti-War movements.  Those formative experiences made it impossible for them to turn away, though I am sure there are many time that they would have loved to have tossed their marching boots and gone home.  They couldn’t.  They’d grown to know and love and recognize themselves among those hurt by the injustices inflicted by governments that don’t represent the people and corporations that pull the strings.

My generation’s additions to the crew of social change makers were small but determined.  Like our predecessors, many of us have found we can’t just go home and forget.  Sure, most of us have regular jobs and families. But we also keep speaking out in one way or another.  And, some of us, have chosen to follow social justice as our career path as well.

It seems to me that there is something to the idea of “starting them young.”  Those who find their way to challenging the forces of oppression as teens and young adults find their passion and themselves in the struggle.  There is community.  There is a reason for being.  There is a sense of love and hope.  There is a multi-generational space where people care for each other.   There are the things that we’re looking for in developing a strong community and democracy.   Those young people may not all stay active every day of their lives, but many will keep coming back.  Those connections will be made.

In the early 1960’s as the Anti-War Movement was starting protests in some of our larger cities had crowds in the hundreds. By 1967, over 100,000 gathered at the Lincoln Memorial.  In 1968, brought thousands to Chicago for the Democratic National Convention.

More than 200,000 took part in the March for Our Lives in Washington D.C. according to Digital Design & Imaging Service.  Thousands of others gathered in cities and small towns around the world.  Youth led these gatherings.  These teens and young adults are leaders who will find their community, their hope, their possibilities and their understanding of the political system in this struggle, alongside those of previous generations who never hung up their marching boots.  The difference here is that the crowd has grown.

The movement is growing.  It is getting stronger.  These teenagers don’t have a complete political and social analysis.  Thank goodness!  Their minds are still young, agile, and developing new ideas.  I say thank you!

To the young people I say, listen to the stories.  There are many elders still among you with important stories to share and others who’ve done this stuff for a while too.  Listen, learn, and do what feels right.  You’ve got this and we’re with you.

The Boarding Schools Continue

· Leave a comment ·

I was a foster parent for a bit over a year before I moved to Morris.  It gave me an opportunity to learn quite a bit about the foster care system in Minnesota as well as to care pretty deeply about some profoundly hurt children.

The foster care system in Minnesota is a lot like that in other states.  It needs systemic change.  Wonderful, caring people work within the system.  They are overworked, under prepared for their roles, often lacking cultural competence for working with the groups that they interact with, and eventually just burned out.

There’s a piece though that troubles me most deeply about how the system works.  Here in Minnesota that piece goes back to 1871 with the opening of the White Earth Indian School.   The White Earth Indian School was one of sixteen boarding schools in Minnesota, the largest of which was on the campus where I now work.  The Morris Industrial School for Indians which was begun by the Catholic Sisters of Mercy and later run by the Federal Government had over 2000 students during its 22 year history from 1887 to 1909.  These schools were where Minnesota lived out that idea made famous by Capt. Richard H. Pratt, who founded the Carlisle School in Pennsylvania, “Kill the Indian. Save the man.”

Native children were kidnapped. Their hair was cut. They were denied their traditional diets and forced to speak only English.  They could no longer practice their own spiritual beliefs or learn from their elders.  Entire generations began to lose a sense of who they were.  We know now that this loss has fed into many of the challenges that our Native communities face today.  We understand that the destruction of the Native diet has led to diabetes, heart disease, depression, and other illnesses. We know that people need a sense of family and self to stay clean of drugs and to succeed economically and emotionally.  We know that many of the elders who lived through the boarding schools still carry the trauma and that those experiences are handed down one way or another.

Why does that matter?  Well, here in Minnesota 2% of the population is Native. Yet, over 20% of the children in foster care are Native.  In 1871, maybe the Federal government didn’t understand the culture of the Native people and how the community raised children.  Maybe they really thought they were doing something good.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that today we know better.  Today we know that it’s wrong to simply kidnap those children, cut their hair, take away their language and their beliefs, and feed them poison.  Yet we continue.

The system needs to change.  Stop putting Native kids in foster care at record rates.  Instead, feed them good food, bring back their languages, let them learn their history and their values, honor their communities.

Remembering What’s Important

· Leave a comment ·

Image result for St. Coletta School

I remember, as a little girl, watching “Facts of Life” on television.  I always wanted to be one of those really lucky, smart kids who got to go to a boarding school.  It seemed so special, almost magical to have that kind of freedom.  It’s funny looking back at it now.  My older brother actually went to a boarding school, St. Lawrence Seminary,  and I visited him quite often as a young child.  I saw his boarding school first hand often.

I also saw St. Coletta’s.  I was thinking of it today, remembering how I loved to visit St. Coletta’s, how I was really kind of jealous of the people that I met there, how I wanted to live there in that wonderland.  I had no idea, as a young child, that the people who I met at St. Coletta’s had severe developmental disabilities.  I just thought they were happy and having fun.  Maybe they were.

St. Coletta’s is a special place in my memory because of a special woman who left the world this morning.  Sr. Phillip was my aunt.  She did laundry and care giving for residents of the school.

There are many of us in the world who hold that title “I grew up Catholic.”  It seems a lot of us hold an anger about that experience especially about the nuns and priests in our lives.  I don’t.  I don’t hold the same beliefs I did when I was younger, but I look back at some of the believers who’ve taught and guided me and I am inspired.

Sr. Phillip was one of those.  I remember her hands, scarred from years of work.  Her smile and twinkling eyes, her walk that really was just like a penguin.  Her hips and legs had to have caused her great pain.  For the last several years she depended on an oxygen tank.  But, she never complained.  She was truly happy.  So often we’re running from here to there acquiring stuff, seeking accomplishments, trying so hard to be greater than we are and falling short, disappointing ourselves and just being lost.

Sr. Phillip just smiled and laughed and enjoyed the people she was with.  She lived over 90 years.  I knew her half that time.  I don’t remember ever seeing her angry for more than a moment.  I think back now and know that she spent decades of her life working and living with individuals facing huge challenges in their lives.  She lived with a vow of poverty.  She also lived within a loving community, with a faith that meant a great deal to her, as a part of a family that she loved.  She had it all.

I thank her for reminding me what’s important.

The Detox Day 20

· Leave a comment ·

I did something a little out of the ordinary a few weeks ago, 20 days ago to be exact.  It was my friend Bob’s fault.  Last summer I had some allergy testing done to see if changing my diet might help with my epilepsy.  I’ve made some significant changes to how I eat and it’s been great!  I’ve lost nearly 40 lbs.  I feel so much healthier and I think my seizures have decreased as well.

Among my allergies are cane sugar, olives (olive oil), green pepper, and black pepper as well as a few other things.  That brings us to the incident of 20 days ago.  I’ve said goodbye to ice cream, cakes, and cookies without too much sadness.  I’ve just figured out ways to replace them with things I can eat.  There is one thing that I’ve not successfully said goodbye to though– pizza.   I still fall prey to the mediocre pizza buffet.  I can successfully avoid the slices covered in green peppers and olives for the most part though every once in a while one slips in covered in cheese.  But, there’s just about always cane sugar, olive oil, and black pepper hidden in those creations.  Plus, the pizza buffet is one of the few places that I have a glass of pop anymore as well.  20 days ago I was on Facebook pondering a trip for pizza when Bob responded by telling me that I’m an addict and need a 120 day detox.

Well, whether or not addict is the right word I don’t know.  But, I am nothing if I am not stubborn.  Bob seemed to be questioning if I could go 120 days without pizza.  I thought about it and realized that since my mom died in 1984,  I’ve probably never gone more than two weeks without a slice.  I was twelve when she passed and had quite limited cooking skills.  When Dad was at work and I was home I ate a lot of frozen pizza, potato chips, and coke.  Now, all three are gone from my diet.

In college, my housemate had a piggy bank in the shape of the Sesame Street character Bert.  We used it to save our change for a trip to Europe.  We never got to Europe because every time we got enough we bought pizza.  I’ll be making my first trip to Europe this summer.

Today is a day of celebration.  I think it may be the longest I’ve gone without eating pizza since I was 12 years old.  I am treating my body with the love and respect that I deserve.  Feeding myself good and healthy food that I enjoy and that makes me feel good.

Only 100 more days to the pizza detox.  I am asking myself how I will celebrate my accomplishment when it’s done.  Will I go out for pizza? Stay tuned to find out.

How are you caring for yourself today?  You deserve the best.  Treat yourself with love, caring, and respect.

The Red Dress

· Leave a comment ·

Image may contain: people standing and outdoor

Miigwetch to David Manuel or whoever took this photo.

 

I’ll start this by being clear.  My ancestors are from Luxembourg and surrounding countries.  Sometimes when I advocate that the people of the over 500 different tribal nations in the place now referred to as North America get treated with basic respect and dignity I am asked if I am Native. I’m not.  I was just raised to care for and respect my neighbor.  And, I’ve had the good fortune to count some great Indians among my dearest friends.

I saw the photo of the red dress this morning.  It made me think.  I have long believed that racism is an act of fear more than power.  Somewhere in our being white folks recognize that we’ve done wrong for these many generations and we’re afraid of retribution.  We’re afraid of what could happen if everyone else had homes, jobs, money, education, and a safe place to be, at the same level that we do.

I’m not talking about individual fear.  Some people individually have moved past it.  But, as a group, we’re afraid.

We women, we have to address that fear.  It’s our to address because we are strong.  I remember as a young activist standing on the steps of the Wisconsin State Capitol, listening to Frannie Van Zile from the Mole Lake Nation.  She was talking about the proposed Crandon mine.  She said “You women, you women out there, you are the keepers of the water.”  Those words changed my life.  In many Indigenous cultures women are respected and honored. They are recognized to carry an important power, that they are keepers of the water, bearers of life.

That red dress reminds me that Native women, in fact all women of color, are in great danger because fear attacks where power resides.  It also reminds me that, as a woman, I have a responsibility to my sisters to care for them, to mourn their loss, and to do what I am able to keep them safe.

 

Another Addict Is Gone

· Leave a comment ·

Another addict died this week.  Did it matter?

While more white people in Minnesota die of opioid abuse than any other population in the state, the tribes are some of the hardest hit by the epidemic. In 2016, 395 Minnesota residents died of overdoses. Native people in Minnesota die at a rate nearly 6x as high as whites. Yet there are no answers.

Native people are roughly 2% of the population of the state.  Why are they dying every day from addiction?

American Community Survey data suggests that Minnesota has a poverty rate of 10.8%. Native people, however in our state face a poverty rate of 31.4%. Native people are also less likely to make it through the educational system.

Still, after more than 200 years of attacks by European invaders and their descendants the tribes survive.  But, yet the attacks continue.

If white people were dying of opioid abuse at a rate 6x that of Native people, would we be responding differently?

Success in recovering from addiction requires hope and stability.  Right now that hope and stability doesn’t exist.  We need to change that. We can arrest as many dealers as we want and more will appear.  If we’re serious about ending the opioid epidemic, we need to address racism.  Here are a few steps to take.

  1. Learn about Native history and treaty rights
  2. Support local Native run businesses
  3. Be a vocal ally
  4. Support efforts to teach Native languages
  5. Encourage our schools to accurately teach about the history and cultures of tribes
  6. Help build a sustainable local economy
  7. Support young people by showing that you care in whatever ways that you can
  8. Listen to the elders and learn
  9. Stop and think
  10. Question the system

https://www.mprnews.org/story/2016/04/18/opioid-overdose-epidemic-explained

http://www.wctrib.com/opinion/editorials/4405297-tribune-opinion-minnesota-opioids-bill-brave-and-needed-proposal

http://bismarcktribune.com/news/state-and-regional/spaces-between-us-racial-disparities-persist-in-nd-minnesota/article_e72061be-01b3-56f9-95a9-5a16505501f2.html

 

I Used to Know a Writer

· Leave a comment ·

What is it that makes someone a writer? That’s the question that I’ve been asking myself today.  Two days ago I felt the need to start a new blog.  I acknowledged all the times that people have encouraged me to put my life stories to paper and decided to do it.  Then, today, I sat down at the computer and nothing.  That’s right, nothing came out.

I grew up out in the country, on a farm in southeastern Wisconsin.  My high school graduating class had less than 100 kids.  We were pretty lucky kids though.  We really were the center of the town’s attention.  Whether it was the high school musical, a parade, or a football game we were the ones everyone came to watch.  We were the stars.  I acted, played music, edited the school paper.

Then I went to college.  The campus had about six times as many people as the town that I’d gone to high school it.  It was the big time for this farm girl.

Thursday nights my freshman year began to define me.  Thursday nights led me to the basement of the library, a gathering of the minds, probably the most creative group of out of this world artists I’ve ever had the good fortune to know.  It was University Writers and I became a writer.  I’d written for years, but it was then that I began to share my work, began to look at myself differently, see my thoughts as valuable, creative, and something special.

It’s been a long time since I’ve sat and laughed and shared with those friends in the basement of the library.  Yet, they carry with me.  Here’s a piece that I had published in Barney Street our campus literary magazine my sophomore year.

Little Boy

Little Boy
hiding in the shadows
laughing in the light
colouring a crayola world
running from shades of gray and black
dressing up in soldier clothes
carrying at his side
a gun
and a tear stained knife
Little Boy rides his unicorn
slides down rainbows
in the day
in the evening
puts in his mask
a grown-up masquerade
evil black knight
fearful, dangerous,
angry wolf
and at night
in the midnight darkness
the mask away
Little Boy cries
and prays for day

It’s nearly 30 years later now.  It’s been a long while since I’ve written poetry.  But, the stories continue.  I keep writing, journaling, grants, reports, mostly.  Does it mean that I am still a writer?  I hope so.  It seems time to start work on another chapter.

Challenges and Gifts

· Leave a comment ·

My father will turn 90 in just a few days.  Family is gathering for the party tomorrow.  I’ll be 500 miles away.

That wasn’t the plan.  The plan was that I’d drive home yesterday, spend a little time with friends along the way, then head for a weekend with family.  My body, well actually my brain, changed the plan.  I have epilepsy.  I was diagnosed in 2013.  My seizures have been well under control, but one showed up a few days ago and I had to set down the car keys for the next few months.  And, I had to take a few days to just rest and recover.

The good news is that it encouraged me to pick up the laptop again.

I don’t know why I have epilepsy.  I come from a large family and I am the only one with this challenge/gift.  I can hypothesize a list of possibilities, and I have many times. But, the reality is that it’s here and I get to live with it.

Why write about it?  Well, because it is a gift and gifts are good to share.  What? Epilepsy is a gift? No way!

I will admit it’s not a gift I would have chosen and if I had the receipt I would most definitely return it, but it is a gift.  Here are just few reasons why I consider my epilepsy a gift in my life.  I wonder what unexpected and perhaps unwanted gifts life has given you?

  1. It’s helped me look at the temporary nature of life to better understand that there was a time without me and there will be another time without me.  That’s ok. Now is my time to be alive.
  2. It got me to take pause to take care of myself.  I’m now a whole lot more conscious of when I need to just relax.  I’ve totally changed my diet, lost a lot of weight, and feel much better and happier.
  3. It’s helped me empathize with the experience of others.  Seizures scare people.  They also sometimes limit some of the things that I am able to do.  Epilepsy is covered by the Americans with Disabilities Act.  So, I am told, by the law, that I now have a disability.  Some days I agree.  Some days I don’t.  But, I do know that I have a better understanding of how both my brain and societal rules create limits.
  4. I have found great support.  I am a lucky one.  I have a strong family and friends that don’t run when they get scared.  I’ve also been able to find some excellent online support groups that have added to the group of people that I have that understand.  How amazing is it when people stay with us through the our rough spots?
  5. It’s continued to inspire my work to encourage healthy living both as individuals and as community.  My experience simply reminds me that we need to take care of ourselves individually and as a community if we’re to survive and thrive.

What challenge/gifts inspire you and carry you forward?