BILLY JACK and the Indians

Tom Laughlin, the originator of the role, "Billy Jack", in the films of the same title, died last week, at age 82. He was one of the first true heroes of my young adult life: someone to not only look up to for their "ideas" and "ideals", but also someone to draw strength from, every time I viewed his films. This may be a weird American way of looking at life--through cinema, rather than spiritual teachings--or it may be a contemporary human endeavor. (The more I analyze this, the more I realize that the act of visualization IS spiritually based-- what better way to help one visualize than to watch a large screen?) For whatever reasons, I have taken comfort and gained strength through the films "Billy Jack" and "Trial of Billy Jack"--both first seen in the early '70s.

Briefly, Laughlin plays a Vietnam Special Ops Vet who comes home emotionally wounded from the war. He is through with violence of his own making. Of course, his karma forces him into mainly violent situations--most of which he emerges from wiser and bloodier than his opponents.

A master of the martial arts ("Lapkido") and a student of world philosophies, "Billy Jack" isn't just your everyday action-figure gone rogue. What made him fill my imagination was that he never picked a fight--he was drawn into them. Taking up fists for the oppressed, "Billy Jack" fought racism, sexism (in his way), ageism, and genocide. However, after every battle, his guilt about violence roared, wracking him with self-doubt and self-examination.

Born a "half-breed", "Billy Jack" moved back to the Dineh Nation's rez, seeking the teachings of the oldest shamans. His isolation in the backcountry didn't preclude his continuing protection of an alternative school for "any child needing a place to learn in peace". Under "Billy Jack's" eyes (as well as the Indian Tribe's care), his significant other, "Jean", (played sensitively by his real-life wife, Teresa Laughlin) runs the school with a global mindset and emerging 70's idealism.

The film follows many streams: Laughlin's own concern for Native American culture, spirituality and political rights; cutting edge educational models and the rights of children; examination of Self; responsibility for one's choices; Pacifism as an actual model for life; among others. In an Indie film made far from commercial studios, "Billy Jack" pulled together these disparate themes and made two films that still intrigue, today.

An eclectic sound-track, featuring Native cultural songs, rock-n-roll independent artists, and original music by his family, further raises these films to higher standards than what one might expect. I know that as I fought for A.I.M.'s goals in the seventies--myself a kind of "rebel student", -- I understood the fictional frustrations of "Billy Jack" on a visceral level. Like him, I, too, felt myself caught between cultures--my own search for true Spiritual Awakening often just out of reach. (A key scene in the first film has "Billy" wiping his face, confessing to "Jean" that he so desires to be a man of peace, but since his birth, he has been raging...Of course she tells him that's bull-shit! It's no easy path, being a Pacifist, and he better drop that false image, immediately...)

Beyond the personal issues I found mirrored, however cinematically, in the films, a little research also uncovered my political "take" on the movies. First Nation citizens, (American Indians), loved the fact that an action hero with conflicting, deeply-interesting back-story and intricate mind-set would be portrayed as a Native person. "Billy Jack" was so much more than the grunting, loin-cloth and feathered Indian of Hollywood. (He was also not the white-washed, romanticized "Good Indian"). Laughlin caught, for a few moments, a complex, modern human being, struggling (though filmatically) with a changing national culture--a character who just happened to be half-Indian.

Because Laughlin's own life had become emeshed with Native politics during his college years in South Dakota, he was sincere in his attempt to explore these issues via film. This sincerity included using actual Indian actors as Indians--including not trying to pass himself off as a full-blood. Years after the films were history, Laughlin continued his professional work with the same honor and sincerity.

(I was particularly struck when I found out that he had gained special permission to actually portray parts of spiritual vision questing he underwent during the films. There was, at no time, any rip offs of Native practices nor philosophies. Elders, as well as shamans, were present throughout the filming. Nor were any animals exploited--another issue made public before it was the film industries regular practice. Laughlin was the real deal. As close to an actual "Billy Jack" as there could be...perhaps that is why the films didn't drop into the black hole of absolute ridicule...)

"...a character that strongly resonated with a good deal of Native movie-going public..." was how critics at the Indian Country Today Media Network wrote about "Billy Jack" last week.  Reporters also noted that only two actors in America have ever been honored with Indian Country's highest recognition: Marlon Brando and Tom Laughlin.

His wife, Teresa Laughlin, suggested people could donate to the "Friends of Pine Ridge Reservation", in lieu of flowers--extending Laughlin's commitment to Native People past his earthly life.

Little did I know that the path I saw created in the films of "Billy Jack" would precede my own adventures West. They would include continued contact and work for Indian people in the U.S. They would also include twenty years at an alternative school where the belief that any child could come and learn what they wanted to learn was key. I introduced several generations to Tom Laughlin's films, while teaching there. The search for personal responsibility (and Englightenment), as well as the complexities of being a human being were explored deeply at The Farm School. While never confused with "Billy Jack", it was a known factor that I admired an artist whose work reflected wholly his life's concerns. I hope my students gained at least one cinematic "hero" along the journey.

Fly high, Billy. You are finally free.
Thank you.

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW

There is a terrible, wonderful storm outside. It began with a creaking snow that held aching in its flakes. At first, sideways frozen dust. Then, a metamorphosis into noisy grit, pinging off my windows, clinging to my roof. (I woke to the cacophony, no longer shocked, simply knowing what I'd find.) I was not disappointed. Then, it just stopped.

The sudden quiet penetrates as surely as the cold.

All is still. Flash-frozen. Even the wind is silent.
The only lights come from the street. Golden amber. Muted. The perfect staging of shadowed outlines against the rolling white. A snow bomb has gone off. I am the lone survivor in its aftermath.
The plows and shovels have not yet arrived.
Huddled inside, neighbors push farther into sleep. Soon, house- lights will blink on. Coffee and bacon and oatmeal downed to fortify the storm-chores left in its wake. But not yet. Not yet.

The furnace clanks, shooting steam through veins of the house. A smell of wet heat, metal pipes, winter clothing permeates the darkness. My parents, the dog, all asleep. No huffing; no moans; no murmurs anywhere. Not even a ghost stirs in the silent spaces.

(My heart pumps with the ticking of my clock.
Almost as if I'm underwater, breathing forced oxygen, noting a kind of blue-light...)

This interior landscape of the house mirrors the interior landscape of my mind. Quiet between true night and first dawn--soon to erupt as someone inevitably cranks the house to movement. Whomever follows will rub against the first, the friction just enough to ignite a spark. Sudden warmth, or another explosion? Only the day will tell.
(This house has always held too much static electricity. Too many frustrated dreams.)

I watch my aging hands type in the glow of the screen. (Another field of white!) My words are footprints in electronic snow. The storm has pulled me in...pulled me back.
Always: this lesson.
Back.

(Whether for reparations, respite, reconnection or repair: back.)

Coming on Christmas.
Outside, there is a terrible, wonderful storm.
Like Joni Mitchell, I, too, wish I had a river.

To glide...
  
 

MANDELA and the SNOW: a private reverie

The world prepares its public mourning this week, having already begun its private reveries. Nelson Mandela has passed from this planet. Not so, his legacy. Not so, his memory. Even as I gaze at the falling snow outside my window this morning, Mandela is on my mind.

Why is it that so much of this world was blanketed by "white" cultures?  There are more people of color than there are their white cousins...White people, as far as our history books are concerned, weren't even "the first people"...Perhaps it is as the Indian people of the America's stated--we are the people who come to a place and cover it like lice...or snow...

As the white storm outside blankets this New England landscape, I think of our own genocide, in Massachusetts. First, the Vikings--fiercest white men of all, in their dragon-hulled ships--arriving as warriors and looters--exploring for pillage and conquer--exploring and terrifying any who stood in their path. Later, the other Europeans, come to take whatever was available in the "New World"--from beaver and otter pelts to gold. (Indians made lousy slaves. They would refuse to give in--starving or sitting down in their chains and simply setting their souls free. So, other "goods" were taken.) Whatever could be loaded onto ships and sent back...whatever made a buck...or a reputation.

(Next,the Pilgrims and religious hordes arrived--carrying with them indentured servants and communicable disease. Surely, these groups were most like "lice"--sucking the first people dry; killing them off  without even trying.)

However, after a while, they DID try. Soon, the wars began in earnest in this land of many cultures and colors; the white blanket suffocated the indigenous, often slaughtering the very friends who saved their immigrant lives. New England is a cornucopia of hurt and intolerance on so many levels...(Less obvious than its sister-South, we had a kind of Apartheid that Mandela would have raged against.)

I watch the snow. I shiver, remembering who I am behind my white skin and "privilege". What have I taken for granted? Where could I have facilitated change?

 I remember history lessons--far fewer--which spoke of the great white heroes and hopes. I think of Quakers and Abolitionists and colonists who fought on the side of the original people. I think of women behind the scenes, who taught and nurtured and looked after the children of all cultures around them--whose stories were never recorded--only passed down through generations. I think of far-sighted men who did, on some level, become enlightened, if only for public moments. Men who tried to give all human beings a fighting chance on equal ground--even if, in their private lives, they were less open-hearted.

There have been good, decent, and even great "white folks". Not all are a scourge upon the land. Not all seek to conquer "the Other", or make less, people unlike themselves.  Mandela would remind me of that--remind all of us of that. We have to start at the place of our own heart's center--at the place we find ourselves. We have to begin the enlightened action within our own heads, first, no matter who we are. I must hold on to that. I must embrace that first (perhaps greatest) lesson.

Embrace that which is best, inside ourselves. Seek what is best, in others. Fight to protect those without a voice of their own, and then fight to give them their voice. Heed that voice, once it begins to speak out. Reach out to your sisters and brothers and cousins and work to create something the world has yet to see. Embrace that which is different from yourself, even as Nature does, for in diversity, we find survival. Celebrate the brightest in all cultures. Share, unconditionally.

As the snow falls, it also melts. Even as it seeks to bury us, whitewashing the ugly, it carries a promise of living water in its frozen soul. It will cover, and smother and freeze, for a time, but it carries in its core the life-giving elements of other seasons. White is the reflection of all colors--and so, we must be part of The Whole.

We must confront who we are and fix what we find. We must also celebrate each season in its turning.  Solstice is coming. Mandela is passing. New challenges await us all. There is no time for guilt--only forgiveness and compassion. Let us remember the great man by forgiving ourselves.    

BUDDHA BACKPACKED

There are more than a few books on Buddhism written specifically for teens. In fact, many of my favorite writers have tackled the problem of bringing, not only the basics of Buddhism to the younger set, but also, the classics. However, there is rarely a copy of these texts in any classroom where I have been employed.

Imagine my surprise when, last week, as I was assigned to be in  class with Mr. Dandelion (an alias I hope won't offend...), I happened to spy, by the Teachers' Computer, a copy of BUDDHA IN YOUR BACKPACK...!  Mr. Dandelion is an able-bodied (and much harried) student- teacher, attempting to get his credential in different states, simultaneously. This means, beyond doing student-teacher hours in different counties, he also must travel New England winter roads for several hours each day. He is already stressed out by the time he arrives at school.

Today, his "official master teacher" was out, sick. (Our school district doesn't leave student teachers alone in the classroom to teach...ahem...) Today, I am to be his "official master teacher"--a silent ghost, observing--a "muscle", if it comes to that-- an emissary to the masses (as well as to the Office)--and general "Presence in the Classroom". This is an assignment I hate--though I like Mr. Dandelion very much.

Mr. Dandelion planned on showing a video about Muslims in America. He was more excited about the video than the students. My role was to simply stay at the Teacher's Desk while he worked the social studies classes. Mr. Dandelion is quite animated (and very young)--bobbing,weaving, making "adjustments" to students' behavior on the fly. His voice can go several octaves deeper (as well as higher) and several decibels louder than mine. Though every period is packed with kids, I knew that my job that day would be merely  moral support. Mr. Dandelion has this.

The video was well done. It followed contemporary Muslims, in the mid-West, as they went about their everyday American lives. It also challenged a white, thirty-something, American married man, to spend a month with a Muslim family, learning what he could learn, about their culture and religion. The first time I viewed it, I was impressed. However, the students were not.

Mr. Dandelion  had assumed that the students would enjoy a video, rather than a lecture. But these are Middle School, emotionally jacked-up, early adolescents. All they worry about or think about or care about is themselves--and the ratings of their peers. On-screen or not, even the Muslim kids in class were more interested in the fact that lights were off and Mr. Dandelion (and Ms. Minns) could only see so much ...

By the third screening, not only had I gotten what I could from the documentary, I was growing more and more alarmed at the lack of interest from our students. I was  alarmed that, when pointed out to them, in various ways, by Mr. Dandelion, it didn't seem to matter. Discussion both before and after the video ran something like this:

Mr. D.: What do you know about contemporary Muslim culture or religion?

Student: Nothing.

Mr. D.: What do you remember about all of our discussions and lessons, last week?

Student: Nothing, Man.

Class, in unison: This is so boring.

Student: This is boring...

Class: When's lunch?!

Student: Do we have to write about this? I shouldn't have to write about a movie...

Granted, Mr. D. is a student teacher. His last assignment was at a (much younger) primary school. Middle Schoolers can be fiercely judgmental and harsh with anyone in authority. (I know!) Getting a laugh--or a groan--from other students-- is as valuable as gold. I also know we could have been screening the newest "Avengers" film and they would have talked through it, complaining about possible writing assignments at the end. This wasn't about a lesson plan on Muslims, nor about Mr. Dandelion's management or teaching styles.

(Maybe I'm getting jaded or maybe we really do have a problem in American schools. Whereas kids across the world are dying just for the right to attend a secure classroom, our kids, here, in a clean, safe, well-supplied environment, are complaining because school doesn't allow them to "do anything we want when we want".) School actually requires them to begin to sort-out their lives; to begin to think for themselves (and not as part of a pack...); to handle tasks which seem boring or "hard" or aren't entertaining. Though part of this ennui is also developmental and will pass as they mature, I've seen this attitude keep real scholars back. Even kids along the middle continuum of achievement are adversely impacted by too-slack administrations who insist, at all costs, that teachers simply "talk nicely" and "deal" with troubled students who often hijack any real learning.

We want to support different learning styles--but we don't want to freeze out the majority of kids who can't learn to concentrate when a classroom is in chaos from two or three loud-mouths. If those disruptive kids can have back-up plans that are supported--i.e. para professionals in the room to assist the main teacher --or a quiet room where they can be taken to, to calm down or do their own work away from the class who also needs quiet to learn concentration and stamina--or support from Administrators who immediately support a teacher who sends a disruptive student out of a classroom and doesn't have to spend three-quarters of the class period "fencing, verbally", with the out of control student--oy vay!  These primary issues de-rail classes all around the country and seem to de-rail the real education goals everyone agrees upon! Why? Why is America so self-conscious and so self-absorbed by "image" that what is really important gets shunted aside?

Stamina, love of learning for learning's sake, overcoming boredom, concentration, good effort, even kindness for one's peers--aren't these things being modeled, anymore?  At home? In the culture? The media? School cannot, without support, do what no one else in the society seems willing to do--to take on the responsibility of truly teaching ourselves mindfulness. Mindfulness as a national agenda!
Whoa! What a concept!

(Meanwhile, I catch myself beginning to sound like MY teachers...brrrrrr. )

The fourth set of students meander inside, and Mr. Dandelion begins to introduce the video...lights down...whispering UP...I want to scream! I even hate people who talk through commercial movies--let alone kids who talk right through school films!

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a copy of  BUDDHA IN YOUR BACKPACK: EVERYDAY BUDDHISM FOR TEENS. (Written in 2002 by Franz Metcalf and Monk Song Yonk, I've seen this text in bookstores but never read it.) I discretely open the copy on my lap, as the video floods the classroom with blue light...My body is facing the overhead screen. I am in the darkest corner of the classroom. No one can see that I'm actually reading a book and not watching this documentary for the fifth time...

Instantly, I am reminded Who These Kids Are...
I am reminded Who I Am and am supposed to be...
I am reminded we are all acts in progress...in the act of Awakening...in the act of Becoming...in the act of disappearing (too).

My heart calms.
My heart opens--to the Muslims struggling with their own lives in a country wracked by fear--always afraid.
My heart opens --to Mr. Dandelion, as he struggles with a career he has dedicated his young life to--not getting the instantaneous respect and adoration he received from his younger students--Mr. Dandelion having to re-create himself on the fly, all "props" knocked out from beneath him--having to employ "Beginner's Mind" without knowing what "Beginner's Mind" entails in this moment.
My heart opens--to being forced to "observe"--when I want to jump in and react; to be silent--when I want to commandeer the classroom; at the very least--entertaining the troops and "saving the lesson".

My MIND remembers--we are all here to learn: every day; in every way; we are all Teachers; we are ALL students, struggling in the moment, together.

(To discover that book, placed there, found, in that darkened day; to be given the "open" minutes, to be reminded: ahh!)

Miracle!

Suddenly, a call comes in from the Office:"Ms. Minns--you are needed to cover Educational Support--please report to Room---"

(Released!)

Must leave the book outside my backpack, for the next Teacher to stumble upon.

(I can take Buddha with me, of course: inside.)

Mr. Dandelion mouths a silent "good-bye".

Several students also wave, respectfully.

I close the door behind me, re-entering The World.