Remembering My First Idle No More Jan. 27, 2013

Oct 21, 2015

Once upon a time, coming up on three years ago, the global movement birthed in Canada by some amazing indigenous aunties was first sparked. As the story was told by several foundin members, it quickly went from an idea in a group meeting to action in the streets. From one then another then a third indigenous direct action, e.g. flash round dances in Canadian malls, the movement was born and replicated to eventually encircle the world.

To my disappointment, I moved from my then-home of Olympia, WA just weeks before their first Idle No More action. Fortunately, I found my new home in Huchin just in time for Idle No More to rise up here in Northern California. While, I missed the Idle No More event in Huchin (Oakland) at Oscar Grant Plaza, I was able to join the January 27th, 2013 Yelamu Ohlone Idle No More flash mob at the fancy mall in the center of San Fransisco. This action included a round dance headed by our local Ohlone relatives. My then-partner and I arrived just as the Ohlone songs were being sung. Being terminally late, we were towards the rear of the gathering. I held a cloth art piece about consent- 1) because I didn't have time to make a sign, 2) in honor of all the missing and murdered indigenous womyn that Idle No More was trying to raise awareness, and 3) indigenous sovereignty is demanding the rights of consent over the people and lands so it seemed fitting. It was an honor to join so many natives in holding space as our indigenous right to gather and sing and dance and pray.

After two or three songs were sung, we were approached by a seeming white man who asked, "Wanna get real and do something?" Of course both of us being Evergreen State College alums of a school who's motto is "Omnia extares" (let it all hang out), the answer was automatic. "Sure!! What are we doing?"

"Banner drop for a solidarity photo to send to Canada. Follow me." was his terse reply.

So we did without hesitation. In retrospect, I wish my usually acumen intuition would have spoken, but I got nothing... No warning flag, no twinge, no danger alert. This act felt like a good way to stand in solidarity with this movement and this newly adopted community as well as to say thank you to the Ohlone nation upon whose land we now occupied. The banner was large, professionally printed, and quite heavy. I was on a cane and still struggling with the effects of a disabling chronic back injury. Hefting that banner was slow, difficult, and far for surreptious. We were instantly spotted by army Sargent-rejects, the self-important white men that obviously held the position of authority over the security guards who were rapidly gathering to observe our act of civil disobedience. Fuming from the background, each security captain was barking orders into headpieces, two-way radios, and into the crowd. The three of us had just approached the edge where the banner was to be lifted then dropped when I felt a swift jerk from behind me. A disembodied hand clutched the banner near mine.

"Oh no you don't!" ordered a visibly queer, trendy, white butch security guard. Meanwhile her fellow officer, another young womyn of color paused a step behind her visibly struggling to comprehend what was going on. Meanwhile the army rejects were screaming for the guards to apprehend our banner. The butch instantly responded by altering her direction effectively pinning then-partner between a mall info board and the banner almost to the point of crushing her ribs. That was my breaking point. Shedding passive resistance and silent protest upon seeing her in distress, I verbally launched at all the officers near me with a litany of our constitutional rights (including the right to personal property on mall grounds), a list of their duties as unarmed security guards (which didn't include detainment or removal of personal property), enumerating the many ways I could sue them for their actions (intentionally placing someone in danger of physical harm), then reminding all the folx of color opposite me that the oppressors of our people were the same ones holding them all in wage slavery, being terrible bosses,and continuing the street violence against their relatives. Just as I began to entreat, "we are all relatives of a common oppression, we are doing this for your children as well..." the butch hopped over the banner, changed directions of pull, and clotheslined me with the banner we were holding. Her strategy worked. I went down hard onto the marble floor. My shillelagh went sprawling one direction, me and the banner I refused to release being dragged in another. As I was being pulled out of the mall so unceremoniously into the sunny January afternoon by the now-livid officer, I remember screaming, "This is STILL INDIGENOUS LAND and you are a COLONIZER!"

Had the cops not showed up, I'm not actually certain what would have happened. I was hurt and furious... A bad combination for me. The police immediately advised the security guard to release the banner and stop dragging me. Somewhere another officer was asking if I wanted an ambulance. (As if I had money or insurance for all that!) Never was I asked if I wanted to file assault and battery charges, even though when I approached an officer about my assualt, the officer agreed that they had no right to do anything that had just transpired. Had I not been severely hurt, I would have written down names and badge numbers for security and for police officers. Must have been dazed both from the injury as well as by not being arrested by San Francisco police department no matter how hard the mall guards tried. Believe me, they desperately tried!

Somewhere in the glare of sunlight, a man's hand thrust down to help me up. I instinctively jerked away til I looked back up to find two red braids and a medicine bag hanging from the neck of a concerned face. "Let me help you up. You ok?" he inquired as the hand hovered near my arm. With a sigh, a silent prayer, and that one interminable lone angry tear, I offered my hand out and heaved myself up.

"Still upright. Guess I'm good enough. Thanks!" I replied.

We shook hands and I lost him to the crowd as my partner rushed up to offer my recovered shillelagh and make sure I was not completely broken. We collected ourselves and our wits and rejoined the crowd now protesting, dancing, and info-sharing across the street at the public park. Other than my rescuer and my partner, I don't know to this day if any one else saw what transpired. I don't know if anyone else observed how quickly the security were willing to enact violence towards a non-violent action. I doubt anyone knew the extent of the injuries I suffered that day. Instead I put on the stoic face and tried to focus on the relatives that were gathered and sharing good words. But I hurt beyond baring.

We left when it was over and went to the emergency room. Hours of agony later, I was released with a splint on my wrist/thumb as well as a reinforced brace on my knee loaded on pain medications with scripts for more in hand. I had suffered a hyper-extension to my wrist and thumb and a dislocation of my patella. The er doctor never checked for counter-indication of the medications prescribed with those I was already on. I desperately wished they or I had.

February 2, 2013. A week after the attack, post-BAAITS powwow in Oakland, still recovering from my injuries, I suffered a severe psychotic reaction to the medication cocktail I was taking. I am fortunate that the police officers responding to the call didn't shoot me immediately on sight. Every story these days of just such an occurrence reminds me how protected I was that night. I raved. I threatened. I argued. I screamed. I cried. I fought enemies only I could see. I called for aid that never came. Like a wounded snake, I struck out at the air or anyone that came near... Or so was related to me by those who witnessed this episode of medicated meltdown.

That night, I was arrested on domestic violence charges. I was strapped to a gurney and transported by ambulance first to Highland hospital ER, then to John George psychiatric, then back to Highland for a medical clearance and finally back to John George where I spent five nights and six days not eating (gluten, it's the allergen for EVERY meal in there) and struggling to regain reality and sanity. This whole entire experience had been just too much for my stressed psyche to handle and my broken body to hold. I was just emerging towards balance and stability again (with absolutely no help from the professionals in the mental hospital) when the cops came to transfer me to Santa Rita jail to await my hearing.

The details of that tormented weekend is for another telling. Suffice it to say that in the course of those two weeks, I got a very in-depth look at layer upon layer of systemic violence, oppression, and general fuckery that is American institutions, that is American culture and status quo. It was a life-altering vantage point. Through it all, I thank Idle No More, that particular one, for changing my life, for giving me a chance to step forward; to learn deeply and grow rapidly during that experience. Had none of those events woven themselves in just that fashion, I might not be on the path for ancestors and the next seven generations the way I am now. I might not have the drive and fire that I possess had that spark never been struck so epically. Perhaps I might also lack the empathy which grew from that growing experience. Medicine is often bitter but usually necessary.

So that is the telling of my first action with Idle No More here on Ohlone lands, but is was far from my last. So long as there is need and injustices here on Turtle Island, I will continue to Idle No More! Til my last breath, I will continue to lift hands to Jessica Gordon, Sylvia McAdam, Sheelah McLean, Nina Wilson... To Dr. Alex Wilson and Erica Violet Lee for being such inspirations! Tlazocamati Tlazocamati Tlazocamati! (Migweetch! Pilamayaye! Thank you!)

Ometeotl! All my relations! Aho!