Why Natives Do Not Own This Land. (First Part.)

Why Natives Do Not Own This Land.

When my family fled the remains of the Former Soviet Union, an attempt at actualising Marxist ideals that ended its 72-year-stint in economic shambles, the topic of being poor was something I learned quickly to suppress. Mother did not take kindly to it, asking me desperately to divulge who it was that had accused me of being poor. So I played along and pretended we were wealthy. It seemed to be what my parents had been aiming for; all Russians have a lingering envy for the bourgeois, and pretensions to aristocracy are not uncommon in that culture. It is called a peasant's pipe dream.

It was not unlike the question of religion. Brought up by Soviet chemists, I did not hear religion brought up ever at the table. I was first asked about my religion by some elementary school classmates. They asked if I celebrated Chanukah or Christmas. I answered Christmas, and as a result of the consequent label I self-identified as "Christian" throughout the greater part of what must have been my seventh year. The truth is that my parents never brought me up celebrating Christmas. But the fact of Christmas as an entity was hard to hide from a perceptive kid, and it was easier to simply go along with the popular trend than to explain the intricacies of the Christian Church to me.
I do not blame them for their approach and for its unexpected outcomes. After all: it was one of the few genuinely Christlike things about my family: that we would turn the other cheek and give unto Caesar Caesar's due.

It is synchronous and funny that ere I enscribe this tale a big macho black van passes me on the corner of Valley Parkway and Escondido Boulevard, blasting Coolio's classic hit "Gangster's Paradise". The opening line is: "as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." and it is certainly a possibility that this was my thought mere minutes prior, leaving a Thrift Store to buy a cheap tea at Starbucks Coffee.

When my family moved to the United States, we were poor. Yet my clever and self-involved parents managed to work their way up through the ranks of the biochemical research community, settling comfortably (if precariously) in the Upper Middle Class of San Diego, California. The American Dream came true for them, chiefly owing to their tunnel vision. Theirs was not mere myopia, but microscopia. What else can be expected of someone who studies mitochondria all day?

Alfonso Rojas was a different character entirely. He lacked the breathtaking restraint and courage to play along and climb the corporate ladder like the rest of us. A Native radical, his sense of self-entitlement was even more obvious behind  the closed doors of a Cleveland Grand Hotel Room than it was on the Debater's Podium. The term "bully" does not account for him in all due detail. He was a proto-Fascist, every bit as dangerous as some Bible Belter who wanted to Make America Great Again and got his wish.

All Fascism is grounded in self-entitlement. It is a sense that the Promised Land belongs properly to you and your tribe.

And to the man who was truly disadvantaged liberal rhetoric evokes not only sympathy but even a touch of amusement. It is so ironic, because it can only be afforded from a position of privilege; it is inconceivable to the truly disadvantaged.

It is not the Native that feels most the whip of poverty and authority, but the first-generation immigrant. So each time that I see an ironic and pretentious depiction of Tribal Elders with the English caption "Homeland Security", I cringe on both sides. Yet this is not primarily on my own behalf; what use would that be? I do not fear Redskins with Redneck gun rights. Ego fears, but only an affront to the Soul and Spirit of Truth could make one cringe. What is TRULY offensive is the pity it awakens in me. After all: Homeland Security was a White Man's Invention, and it belongs properly to him. The logo only serves as an ironical reminder of how the Red Man lost, and why.

Dm.A.A.