A Government's Sin

Of apologies, ghosts and spirits

President Biden stood on the podium and said it loudly and forcefully: “I apologize for what we did to your children in boarding schools. I apologize to Native Americans, Native Hawaiians and Alaskans. I apologize.” Biden said, “we should be ashamed; the government boarding school system is a horrific chapter in our history.”

Biden is a decent man. He responded to the report Deb Haaland, secretary of Interior Affairs has compiled that of the 18,000 Native American children whom government workers took to boarding schools between 1819 and 1969, 973 died at the hands of teachers, priests, nuns and ministers who abused and traumatized most of them, forced child labor, took away the children’s cultural traditions, cut their traditional long hair and forbid their native language These boarding schools are better named concentration camps. Most likely more died. The ones who didn’t die, survived traumatized, with little education and loss of their traditions. They were sent home with vacant looks in their eyes and unable to feel at home anywhere.   

Last month while traveling the SW, we parked our camper van just off a washboard sandy Indian highway in the middle of nowhere on the Navajo reservation. The rough road had worn us out, and we needed a break from driving. As I started heating water for tea, the van door open, a young man appeared out of nowhere. His dark long hair was in a traditional ponytail, his eyes were wide set above a mouth that showed teeth missing when he smiled. Paiute Indian? He didn’t look Navajo. He approached, swung the pack from his back and opened it up, pulling out items wrapped in newspaper. “I made these myself”, he said as he unfolded the paper and held up a cowboy boot, a winged horse, ornately carved. You want to buy? I need money to get food. “These are ceramic”, he added. Where would the food be? I wondered. No town, no settlements nearby. Had he walked from a faraway hogan I couldn’t see? The pieces looked like molded plastic, not something I would put on display. “I don’t want your art pieces”, I said, “but I’ll give you some money.”

After driving all day in the October heat through the reservation, my heart ached. Seeing the desolation, the aridness, the unscalable rock walls, I knew these people lived a hard life on this land, we the white people had “given” them — not my forebears because I’m of Dutch descent, and my forebears were busy transporting slaves from Africa to the Caribbean while the new Americans were exploring the Southwest —

No jobs appeared anywhere near, no resources but animal grazing. Signs of mining and oil industries tearing open mother earth and exploiting what was hidden inside had caught my attention. A rape in the eyes of the natives. They believe the earth gives as long as you take care of her. Well, we haven’t taken care of mother earth or her people. That is clear.

While my tea was brewing, my friend bought a few pieces of the young man’s artwork. I gave him money and he was on his way walking the washboard road in a northern direction. When I looked again a few minutes later, he was gone, disappeared into thin air. Strange, this sudden appearing and disappearing. Who or what was he? Castaneda stories of spirits taking on human form swirled through my head. Why had I encountered him? Could my money make amends? I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t disregard him as a Native American man down on his luck, likely to spend my money at a nearby bar. That narrow forehead, the strange facial proportions reminded me, a former mental health working with problem youth before I retired, of the tell-tale signs of a child exposed to alcohol in utero.

After our break, we drove on and it wasn’t long before the sandy washboard road became paved and we were no longer bumping along. No towns or settlements for another hour of driving, we just passed a convenience store. Did he get a lift? Did he teleport himself? These added to my strange feelings all day. Feelings caused by signs of a horrific chapter in American history.

That night we camped near Canyon de Chelley. I dreamed wild dreams of people screaming, hurting, running. I was amid that melee, a swirling vortex of hurting people. Disturbed upon waking, I sensed it was more than a mere dream. I felt an energy that surrounded me. Just as I had felt the ones who came before, the pueblo people, in Mesa Verde. When we visited Canyon de Chelley, the next morning, I learned how Kit Carson, on orders of governor Carleton, drove the Navajo into a cave and murdered as many as he could, leading to the surrender of 8000 Navajo who were then sent on what was called the Long Walk to the Bosque Redondo reservation. Many died of starvation and cold (it was January) on this walk.

Did I dream this event that happened 160 years ago? The energy still exists. I felt it, as the young Indian was more than a mere trader of goods. The Navajo reservation is full of spirits and beings who have lived before.

We can’t just say I’m sorry for what our forefathers, our government, did. It’s a first step. I had the chance to donate a portion of my wealth. To give back a bit of what we owe them in spades. Our human connection doesn’t create an us and them. We are humans who need to care for each other. We cannot make “them” into “us”. It’s offensive. The current political division isn’t helping this divide. Now that I know what has happened and witnessed the result of a chapter of historical abuse, I walk around with the burden of shame.

I didn’t witness Biden apologize to the survivors while mingling and shaking hands. He was on a podium, standing higher than the Native Americans present, with sunglasses covering his eyes. He shouted his apology to be heard. Glad I stepped out of the van and handed the young man his money at eye level. I cannot heal the damage done. But I can treat whoever walks up to me as a fellow being, spirit, ghost, or whatever they may be.