Category: community

Visiting Home

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It was probably over twenty years ago that I had the idea of collecting stories from my father of his youth.  My plan was to write a book.

Now, two decades later the story is changing.  I never recorded those stories and the time has gone by.  My Dad turned 90 this past March.  His memories are leaving him.  I got to see him this weekend.  I made the trip home, almost 500 miles, for our family reunion and just to spend a little father-daughter time.

It’s a new time.  I remember when I was a little girl watching Dad tossing the seed corn bags over his shoulder, throwing hay bales, working on farm machines, doing all the work that needed to be done.  I remember him sitting in the recliner reading his Sunday paper, sitting in the hospital room watching Mom die, taking up his place in the kitchen after she was gone.

My Dad never graduated from high school.  He wasn’t meant for the classroom.  He’s always thought that because he struggled in school that he failed, that he was somehow dumb.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

Dad’s journey started on a farm in Port Washington, Wisconsin the second of four children.  His father died when Dad was seven.  Within a few years the family had to move to town and Dad was working for neighboring farmers to make a little money and follow his passion as it became clear that school would never be the place for him.

When he grew up he joined the Navy where he served for several years before marrying my mom and starting a family.  He eventually started farming with his father-in-law and went on to continue farming for over forty years while he also worked full time at a power plant and, for many years, sold seed corn.

He knew the fields like the back of his hand.  He knew every road in the county.  This weekend he and I went out for a ride.  We went to visiting and stopped at a couple cemeteries.  We talked about the fields.  He confused the soybeans and the corn.  We drove the roads he’s ridden for nearly a century.  He told me that he didn’t recognize where we were.

But still, we traveled and we talked.  When it was time for me to leave to return to my current home, he held my hand and looked my eyes and smiled.  It was a smile I remembered.  I saw it before.  I saw it on his aunt’s face.  Sr. Christine was in her 90’s when she held my hands for the last time and smiled with such sweetness and love, that combination of wisdom and childlike beauty that age creates.

My being is divided. I would both love to see my Dad again, to hold his hands, to hug him, to take another drive, to talk some more and I am mostly ready to say goodbye.  He’s been and continues to be my hero.  That never changes.  The question remains what to do about that book?

Polo Shirts and American Flags

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In honor of Memorial Day, I thought I’d take on a topic I’ve not visited in a while.

Back in college I served in the student government association at my school.  We were a committed crew.  We gathered every Thursday night for multi-hour meetings fighting for students rights, our mix of conservatives, liberals, and radicals each determined to do what we believed was right.

Every Thursday night began with the Pledge of Allegiance which I, and a few others over the years, sat out.  I still remember being taunted by my fellow student senators for choosing not to take part.  What I remember best is the night that the flag wasn’t in the room.  One of the conservatives happened to be wearing a shirt designed like an American flag.  The group began to jokingly say the pledge in his direction.  I exploded.

People who had taunted me for a political statement against war abroad and injustice at home were ready to pledge allegiance to a shirt probably made by slave labor.  The pledge of allegiance isn’t just a poem.  The flag isn’t just cloth.  They were created to mean something.  Sometimes protest is our strongest way to honor that meaning.

Just some thoughts.

 

 

 

 

Taking Care

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I wonder when I became a care taker rather than someone to be taken care of and what the balance of these things is?  When did I decide that others were more valuable than myself and have I changed my mind?

My meditation of late has led me to a practice of turning toward.  I’m being encouraged to take a look at something in my life that troubles me and sit with it for a bit.  I’ve been recognizing that I am a “wonder woman.”  I’ve known it for a long time, but this practice is encouraging me to look at it and see where it comes from.  I help people.  That’s what I do.  That’s what I do for a living and that’s what I do for a life.  I don’t like being helped though.  I don’t really trust it.  I like to be the one in charge of the process or simply just to do whatever it is myself.

The last two days as I’ve done this meditation laying in my bed I could feel my body tied down and the rock in the center of my stomach as my mind took me back to childhood again.  Doesn’t it always go back to childhood?  We must have all been messed up as kids.

This time it was back to grade school.  I remember being really excited about going to school.  I loved books. I wanted to learn.  I wanted make friends and to have a nice teacher who cared about me.  It didn’t totally work out that way.  I did have nice teachers who cared about me.  I learned a lot.  I had a couple friends.  But, I went to a small school so I wasn’t only picked on by the kids in my class, but by the entire school.

It was the 1970’s and 80’s.  Grown ups didn’t step in much if at all to deal with bullying.  I was just told I needed to get over being shy without being given any tools to do that.  In some sense, it became my fault that I was being harassed.  So, day to day I struggled.  I wanted to have friends.  I wanted to be a part and to have fun at this school that I’d dreamed of.  I wanted to feel safe there.  Instead my stomach was permanently clenched and I dreaded every moment never knowing when my tormentors would get me next.  I tried to hide in plain sight.  It sounds unbelievable to me now, but I don’t think I ever, in six years, asked to use the bathroom during school hours because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.  I just held it until I got home.

That wasn’t ok.  I needed a grownup to help me and the other kids develop our relationships.  There’s nothing to change now about what happened then and that’s ok.  It’s just good for me to acknowledge what I needed and didn’t get and now I can move on.  What happened then isn’t the determinant of what could happen in other situations if I allow myself to be helped or taken care of.  I don’t need to always protect myself by being the one who only takes care.  I can both take and accept.  We each can.

Thank you for reading my thoughts today.

Nickels and Decks of Cards

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Nickels and decks of cards have always made me think of my dad.   My dad, who is now 90 years old, is a sheepshead player and used to play poker too.  Sheepshead, for those not lucky enough to have grown up around the game, is a mainstay of many Wisconsin homes of middle European descent.  A quick look at the history suggests that this complicated card game may have come from the peasants of 18th century Germany, playing a game on barrel heads where the king doesn’t rank the highest.

But, history aside, I’ve never learned to play the game.  It was six year old form of protest not to sit at the table and join the family in this generations old game.  Yet, I was there.  I watched.  I listened. I laughed along.  And, I remember the pile of nickels at Dad’s side.  I remember how he’d slide nickels across the table to the winner of the hand or gather the nickels into his own pile when he won.  They never played for bigger money, just nickels.  I have the container that used to hold Dad’s nickels on his dresser sitting on my dressing table now.

Dad lives in an assisted living facility these days.  Where he once could remember more than just about anyone I know, he now grows frustrated with the holes in his memory.  Some things are hard to hold on to in his head.  He doesn’t always remember the names of the grandkids and great-grandkids.  He gets the names of us kids confused sometimes.  Sometimes I’ll ask about something that happened during my lifetime and he’ll shake his head as if trying to jar the memory loose, then just tell me he doesn’t know about that.

Still, for a man of 90 years his memory remains incredible.  I am reminded of this by the nickel and a deck of cards.  Dad now mostly plays for chips.  It’s apparently illegal in Wisconsin to play for nickels in senior living facilities.  He still plays sheepshead.  I still don’t know what it means with all it’s schmears and trumps and whatever else, but I know he knows the cards.

Back at Christmas time I was playing King’s Corners with him.  It was new game to both of us.  He struggled at first picking up on how to play this simple game, but it wasn’t long before he was pointing out my slip ups.  He knew the cards and knows how to think as a card player.  We laughed and joked and remembered his old friends together.

We laughed at my clumsy shuffling as I lamented that I should have learned from him back when I was a child and he was ready to teach me.  I admired how well he still shuffles and deals while he said he just can’t do it like he used to.

I think about all the kitchen tables he’s sat at over the years dealing out those cards with such skill, gathering nickels or poker chips, and sliding them out across the table again, laughing, joking with friends and family, swapping stories.  Then I find myself thinking of the regular card games that used to happen when I was young.  My dad and some of his friends had a poker club.  I remember when it was our turn to host.  Mom and I would clean.  I’d help out filling bowls with peanuts other snacks, run downstairs to get the poker chips, ash trays, and the ice bucket from behind the bar in the basement.  Dad would mix drinks in those special glasses we had with the wild animals on them.  I’d get a Shirley temple.

The guys would arrive and I’d get to help put away coats.  Mr. Steffen would blow smoke rings with his pipe for me.  The kitchen would eventually become a cloud of smoke between that pipe and Jerry and Kenny’s and I don’t remember who else’s cigarettes.  I’d play while the men jovially bantered over their game until it was time for me to kiss Mom and Dad goodnight and go to bed.  From there, their game went on well into the night and Mom and I would wash dishes in the morning knowing it was a good night of fun and friendship.

I think Dad is the last of the players at that table still in the game of life.  He’s dealt many hands in his life and it won’t be long until he deals his last.  I am thankful for all the memories he’s given me.  While I may never learn to play sheepshead or poker, or maybe I will, who knows, I will always know my father’s love every time I hold a nickel or a deck of cards.

 

 

500 Years of Genocide

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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 Boarding Schools Continue

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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.

The Red Dress

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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

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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

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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.

Prepared and Peaceful– Bringing Back the Nonviolence Training from the Wisconsin Capitol

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January 25th, 2017
Back in 2011 I had the good fortune to get a phone call from the TAA in Madison, WI.  They needed a little help.  You see some folks had gathered in the state capitol because Governor Scott Walker was breaking the hearts of Wisconsinites with his anti-union, anti-worker behavior.  And, well, those folks who gathered there had had enough of the governor cheating on them and they’d decided not to leave.  The TAA and friends were hosting a gathering at the people’s house that would engage hundreds of thousands of people over the next several weeks.  They needed a little help making sure the space would stay safe and nonviolent.

I got the call in the afternoon and in a few hours my good friend Jeff and I were giving the first nonviolence training. Soon, I’d brought together a crew of trainers and we created “Prepared and Peaceful” a document that was shared throughout the capitol and later given to the Occupy Movement.   I’m proud to say the capitol protests remained nonviolent through the weeks were there.
With the changes in our government I expect we’re going to see a massive change in community organizing in the near future with a great increase in direct action organizing.  I’d like to share with the world again the materials that we used in Wisconsin during the capitol occupation and encourage you to be well prepared and peaceful.   Below is the text of “Prepared and Peaceful.”  If you’d like to get a pdf copy, please let me know.

Peace,
Amy

prepared + peaceful
training for being in and around the Capitol

 Each of us is here because we’re committed to something important.
How we express that commitment matters.
Remember, the whole world is watching.
For your safety, the safety of others, and the safety of the protest, we ask that you plan ahead,
consider your options carefully, and get whatever support you need to remain calm and peaceful in
the event that we are asked to leave.
Nothing written here is intended as legal advice. We just want every person in and around
the Capitol to make informed choices about if, how, and when to leave.

NONVIOLENCE
Nonviolence is a philosophy, a lifestyle, and a strategy. Here we address it as a strategy to:
• Keep the public on our side
• Inform our interactions with counter-protestors
• Inform our interactions with police (who mostly support the goals of this protest)
Strategies that support our ability to practice nonviolence include:
• Connecting with others
• Planning ahead, visualizing nonviolent responses, role-playing
• Staying sober and free of alcohol/illegal drugs
• Song, prayer, meditation, compassion—remaining centered, calm, and focused on purpose

CONNECTING WITH OTHERS
Affinity groups are a long-standing way of
organizing nonviolent protest. Consider forming
a small group of people you already know or
meet here to:
• Watch out for each other
• Know each other’s contact information
• Help each other stay healthy and safe (food,
sleep, medications, mood, etc.)
• Have a designated meeting place if you get
separated
• Decide together what actions you’ll take
• Support each other to leave if anyone can’t
stay nonviolent
• Have a plan for what to do if you are at risk
of arrest

BEING WELL
One of the biggest health concerns in a situation
like this is burnout. Take time to take care of
yourself. Use your affinity group to support you.
• Breathe consciously. Even a few deep
breaths can make a real difference in your
ability to think clearly. Make a habit of
breathing consciously 10-15 minutes every
day.
• Rub your feet! At the end of a day at the
Capitol, get the blood circulating, then
elevate your feet so they’re less swollen in
the morning.
• Be sure to take all medications as
prescribed. See “Being Arrested” (back) for
how to prepare if your meds are critical to
your moment-to-moment well-being and
you plan to risk arrest.

PLANNING AHEAD
To avoid unintended consequences, consider in advance: “If the police ask us to leave, will I
leave when asked, or will I refuse respectfully?” This is your individual choice. Opinions
differ on whether or not it would be useful for the movement for people to be arrested. If you are
told to leave, you have three choices: Leave peacefully, cooperative civil disobedience, or
passive civil disobedience.
(OVER)
brought to you by the Grassroots Leadership College | http://www.grassrootsleadershipcollege.org | updated March 11, 2011

LEAVING PEACEFULLY
• Follow police instructions
• Do not interfere with arrests of others, even verbally
• Leave—walk, don’t run
• Meet up with your affinity group to confirm that everyone is away who
intended to be away
• Provide planned support for anyone in your group who stayed

CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE is the active, professed refusal to obey certain laws, demands, and
commands of a government. It is a nonviolent resistance tactic that involves finding ways to achieve
our goals without harming people.
• If you choose to stay, breathe, sing, center, pray, meditate, remain calm
• Recall the police are largely in support of the protest goals and want to keep the charges minimal

COOPERATIVE CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE
• Respectfully let the officer know you do not want
to leave but will cooperate physically
• Stand & hold your hands together in front of you
• Do not react/resist/pull away in any way to
avoid escalated charges
• You may be given a citation on the spot and
released, or transported to a processing center &
given a citation ($150-500 fine & a court date)

PASSIVE CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE
• Respectfully refuse to leave
• Sit down or go limp
• This will likely result in arrest, and if
done completely nonviolently should
be a misdemeanor
• Do not react/resist/pull away in any
way to avoid escalated charges
• See “being arrested” below

BEING ARRESTED
• Recognize that remaining limp while being physically removed can be extremely challenging, can
be dangerous to you, and could possibly be considered resisting arrest, a greater charge.
• Don’t make sudden moves around the police or touch them—this could be construed as
assaulting an officer, a greater charge.
• Consequences could be different for non-US citizens, students, minors, people with outstanding
warrants or past criminal records. Get legal advice before deciding to risk arrest.
• The police may use zip ties to cuff your hands. Keep your hands, arms and shoulders as relaxed
as possible. Use very gentle shoulder rotations to keep the blood moving. If your hands are
behind your back and swelling, get them above your heart by going down on your knees and
bending your head forward, so your hands rest on your back.
• You can ask where you are being taken, but if you aren’t told, don’t worry.
• Once in police custody, cooperate fully as you are transported, fingerprinted and photographed.
If you resist, you must be jailed.
• Don’t lie to the police. Give them your real name and contact information. Not to do so is a crime.
• Provide information about medical conditions or medications. If it is important that you
continue medications while in custody, be sure to bring several days’ supply with you in the
original prescription bottle. Also have with you a doctor’s note specifying the importance of those
meds to your health. Without this, your treatment will likely be delayed—perhaps significantly.
• Don’t answer other questions. Say, “I want a lawyer. I will be silent until I get a lawyer.”
• The ACLU and lawyers hired by the unions will be tracking who is arrested and will do their best
to make sure everyone gets legal support, as long as they are simply in trouble for nonviolent civil
disobedience. Our understanding is that they will NOT give legal assistance to people who get
charged with assault on an officer, drug charges, etc.
• Legal support is being coordinated through the number below. During the day, a person will
answer. At night, a recorded message will provide the numbers for people on call that night.
608.257.0040
• Write this number on your body. If arrested, you will not have your cell phone or notebook.
prepared + peaceful
training for being in and around the Capitol
updated March 11, 2011