Why I am the way I am

Reason #8

"Normal" white family welcomes crazy Indian into it's clan.

It was all downhill from there.

Dad was this outspoken American Indian activist.

Growing up it felt like we went to a demonstration, protest, ceremonial gathering, etc. every week.
Truth is, we probably didn't. It just 'felt' that way.

Although I recall many of them, there is ONE that I believe stands out the most. Possibly because I think my father was never the same after it.

Stockton, CA - 1980

My father learned that as construction workers were building new condominiums, they unearthed a Native American burial site.
Some bones made their way to Universities to be studied. Some were pocketed. Some were sold as souvenirs.

The Native American community had asked that work on the site be halted to have the bones returned so that they may re-bury them with a proper ceremony.
I guess that those requests were denied.

One day my father announced to the family that he was told in a vision, he needed to get the attention of the people. The best way to do that, was to use a symbol that would strike a chord with every person. The crucifixion of Jesus Christ. He decided he was going to crucify himself at the construction site in Stockton.

Someone should have stopped him right there but no one did. In fact, he gained support from friends and strangers.

With me toddling along, my father made good on his statement. We traveled out the the California central valley where he did in fact, crucify himself.

Dad stood on a 16ft wooden cross that his friend Henry Tall Chief built for him.
With his right hand, he hammered the first nail through his left hand and into the cross. Yes, THROUGH. Henry had the 'honors' of hammering the right hand into place.

There he was, my father, nailed to a cross in the early morning hours surrounded by friends, media, construction crews, spectators and myself.

I was only three years old when I looked up at my father, chewing on a licorice root, nailed to a cross.

I was not scared for him. In fact, I think I had a kind of 'meh' feeling about the whole circus that was unfolding around us. Eventually, I left to play with some of the kids in the nearby neighborhood.

I always roamed, alone, as a child. Dad did not mind, in fact, he encouraged it.

In the evening, a man found me and took me to Henry Tall Chief's house where I met up with my father.

We ate dinner and watched the evening news. Seeing my father on the news made me upset and embarrassed.

I know what he was trying to achieve. I believe it was honorable. I just wished it was not MY father doing it.

From that point on, dad seemed to act like he was a super-human. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. We continued to go to protests, demonstrations and the like throughout the '80's. Dad continued to be in the papers, on the cover of magazines and in the local news.

For some reason, around 1989, it all stopped. We did not go to any more demonstrations. In fact, we rarely went ANYWHERE.

Dad started to not get out of bed until 3pm or later. He became increasingly depressed and would just 'snap' and get pissed off at me for the slightest thing. He was ALWAYS heavy handed, but it got worse.

I was choked, punched, kicked, slapped and more. I never stopped loving him though. I think I blamed his behavior on his feeling that he was not serving a grander purpose anymore. Then again, this is what victims do, make excuses for how others treat them.

Maybe if he never got on that damn cross in the first place he would have been content to live a 'normal' life and not feel so let down and disappointed with himself.

Maybe then I would not have hated that wooden cross that stood in our front yard for the rest of my life.

Maybe if none of this happened, I would not be who I am today.

Maybe that would have been a good thing.
Doubt it though.

-Alonis