Every now and then, the re-surfacing of some antiquated law reminds us of our scarred, collective past, and serves to amplify the message that in certain respects, plus ca change, plus le meme choses. (the more things change....)
This came up for debate in the Massachusetts legislature yesterday:
BOSTON - John "Sam" Sapiel gets an uneasy feeling when he crosses Boston city limits, where the full-blooded Penobscot Indian is technically a persona non grata. An archaic law has forbidden American Indians from setting foot in the city since 1675, when settlers were at war with area tribes. Although the law hasn't been enforced for centuries, the fact that it still exists is a lingering source of anger for American Indians.
"I feel kind of put out on the whole thing, because we're being singled out as Indian people," said Sapiel, 74, who lives in Falmouth. "I think about it quite a bit."
Yesterday, the Mass. legislature voted to repeal the law, and Mitt Romney intends to sign it.
It's an odd feeling, this. That we still have the laws on the books, that an entire people was banned from stepping foot in a city, on land that formerly belonged to them. While the letter of the law has not been enforced in a long time, its spirit, shadow, has lain over the land for a long, long time. Like ashes in which we are all covered.
From "Inside Dachau"
by Sherman Alexie
4. the american indian holocaust museum
What do we indigenous people want from our country?
We stand over mass graves. Our collective grief makes us numb.
We are waiting for the construction of our museum.
We too could stack the shoes of our dead and fill a city
to its thirteenth floor. What did you expect us to become?
What do we indigenous people want from our country?
We are waiting for the construction of our museum.
We are the great-grandchildren of Sand Creek and Wounded Knee.
We are the veterans of the Indian wars. We are the sons
and daughters of the walking dead. We have lost everyone.
What do we indigenous people want from our country?
We stand over mass graves. Our collective grief makes us numb.
We are waiting for the construction of our museum.
.