S.E. RUCKMAN: Looking back at 2012

As this essay goes forth, I am fairly certain that the Mayan calendar is to remain a mystery. After a full day of hand wringing, I found the whole thing grandiose; we took a message that we don’t have the language to interpret and molded it into an apocalyptic hiccup.  That didn’t stop me from checking the horizon from time to time, just to make sure.

Looking back over our shoulders at 2012 (an unmistakably poignant year), a series of remarkable things happened in Indian Country. Okay, maybe not that incredible but the downright sad and the tangentially hopeful signaled the continuation of Mankind.

Back in early 2012, a lawsuit was filed by some who protested the use of unpotable water by a ski/entertainment entity for creating polluted snowfall to help along their business.  The plaintiffs claimed that the practice made a mockery of something natural and sacred for profit’s sake. 

I read the United States Court of Appeals, Ninth Circuit decision that rejected this claim.  The court’s decision seemed like a thinly veiled reprimand to the litigants (primarily those from Southwestern tribes for which water is currency). Arizona Snowbowl’s 200-plus employees and $12.8 million in economic contribution trumped the native hand. Motion dismissed.

Meanwhile, Twitter, online papers and social media captured Indians attending the national political conventions to earmark the November presidential election. Although most of us didn’t go, we wondered where the sign-up sheet was circulated.  And if we didn’t go and didn’t care, we felt a vague stirring toward Obama’s inaugural doings.

I said goodbye to many that mattered to me during 2012. The oldest living Kiowa, Mac Whitehorse, died in July at the height of summer. It was a good time to cross over because that is when the sun and the heart are at its strongest. Family members told me that the 94-year-old held strong onto their hands in his last moment and when he was ready to gallop from this earthly plain, he simply let go.

Over in Longmont, Colo. (old time Cheyenne & Arapaho Country) a small town voted unequivocally to ban at-will hydraulic drilling from its mist. Activists did not aim an eco-friendly beam to get the measure passed but posed a laser-like assertion that the process might harm their homes, families and well water. It worked. The resounding message should be clear to our tribal leaders—just say no to fracking.

The year would grow increasingly heavy, but life trundled on. I began to see the experiences of 2012 as a daisy chain in our joint existence.  Our hearts were woven together in heavy anticipation. We were being tested, it seemed.

Like a cloud of locusts, we witnessed Cobell settlement monies flutter and settle over 340,000 recipients right before Christmas. Camouflaged on the $1,000 checks sat the specter of our Indian ancestors who were the real claimants. More than one of us was ambivalent about the money although most checks were cashed within ten days of receipt.

Just when things were nearing desperation levels, I received an email message that resurrected my hope for the New Year. It was a link to a You Tube video of a flash mob. I watched a native crowd joining hands (like aboriginal Whos in Whoville) and singing round dance songs in a shopping mall. The strange burden of 2012 began to melt.

Once upon a time, I was told by a Navajo medicine man that the drum can heal the heart. I didn’t believe him then. Now I know experience imparts wisdom.  I realized as I watched the round dance clip that the drum beat is an antidote that Indians give the world if it will listen. And even if it doesn’t, we’ll sing, dance and confound the world just the same.

S.E. Ruckman is a citizen of the Wichita and Affiliated Tribes in Anadarko, Okla. She graduated from the University of Oklahoma’s School of Journalism and has written for the Tulsa World and is currently a special contributor to the Native American Times. She is a freelance writer who is based in Oklahoma.