Cynthia (Ištá Tȟó Tȟó) Coleman Emery's Blog

Our puppy lived with his brothers, sisters and trainer for five months before we got to take him home.

We learned one important lesson the day the trainer handed over the leash: praise the pup royally when he goes potty outdoors, and don’t lavish praise when he behaves routinely–such as sitting on command.

I thought about the dog as I listened to the live report of the January 6 Commission’s hearing.

The Commission and press praised gutsy folks who have thus far recounted details of the behavior of elected and appointed officials serving under the impeached former president.

I have no doubt these folks show courage, unlike Trump’s chief of staff Mark Meadows and Republican minority leader Kevin McCarthy, who refused to address the American public through the Commission.

Today one of the Commission participants said the former vice president–who also rebuffed the Commission’s invitation to come clean–deserves a medal for confirming the electoral college vote count on January 6, 2021.

Why would you award a medal of honor to someone who is carrying out his or her job as expected?

But…that’s his job, isn’t it?

Mike Pence’s duty as vice president is clearly outlined in the 12th Amendment to the US Constitution.

The vice president’s responsibility, in concert with the Speaker of the House and the Senate, affirm the votes of the Electoral College.

Why would you award a medal of honor to someone who is carrying out his or her job as expected?

True: Pence defied a senile miscreant’s directive to break the law and declare the election rotten.

Like Pence, many have suffered from Trump’s bile including John McCain, a long-serving senator and decorated war veteran: “He’s not a war hero…he was captured,” the former president told a crowd in 2015.

Those who publicly questioned the former president’s sanity, integrity, morality and honesty have suffered, too: Many cling to the lie spread by Trump that Barack Obama was born in Kenya [he was born in Hawaii] while others joined in the disparagement of Elizabeth Warren as “Pocahontas, the face of the [Democrat] party.”

Context matters.

My pup doesn’t get a treat just because he has learned how to sit.

And Pence should not be decorated for doing what is right and just.

###

13 July 2022

Image Credit: Mike Lukovich, Atlanta Journal and Constitution

With acknowledgement and gratitude to the Native peoples on whose land I live, write and teach: the Multnomah, the Clackamas, and the denizens of all Indigenous nations

#barackobama

#deplorables

#elizabethwarren

#framebuilding

#framing

#indigenouswaysofknowing

#january6

#johnmccain

#kevinmccarthy

#kiyuska

#lakota

#markmeadows

#massmedia

#mentalhealth

#mikepence

#nancypelosi

#nativepress

#nativescience

#nativewaysofknowing

#nativewriter

#nodapl

#npr

#oglala

#osage

#pineridge

#pocahontas

#thebuddhaway

#wahshashe

#whatstrending

Our long weekend trip to the East Coast from the West took an unexpected turn: camping.

I had booked an AirBnB that would be a close drive to our family–son and daughter-in-law–and one that welcomed–even encouraged–dogs.

Photos online showed a hand-made wood cabin with a quilt-covered bed next to a wood-burning stove, surrounded by trees, creeks and wildlife.

It looked inviting.

I read that we would wash dishes with bottles of water they trekked in, and that the shower was outside.

I reasoned we could always complete our ablutions at son & daughter’s.

My decision was based on my uncertainty about the pooch: would he behave in a modern hotel with linens and bedspreads and carpeting–even in a pet-friendly place?

This was our maiden voyage with the pup, who had never before travelled far, much less stayed in a hotel.

So we settled for a semi-outdoor adventure during a warm Spring weekend in what the owners call the Magic Forest.

Pooch growled at the goats, frolicked in the grass, chewed on dandelions and obeyed the potty rules like a trooper hound.

Me? Not so much.

Turns out people’s potty was a short trek from the cabin to a wooden outhouse.

Last outhouse I remember using was at the Rez during Sundance before the Pandemic.

And at Pine Ridge we weren’t staying overnight, so the outdoor privy was fine in a pinch.

But facing a four-day weekend in the forest surrounded by mosquitos and ticks and beetles and deer and porcupines and geese and lions and tigers and bears gave me pause.

The outhouse was clean and relatively bug-free, not too smelly, and offered plentiful paper and bottled water for cleaning.

I imagine myself a brave soul, not just for taking the toilet in stride, but for finding a tick behind the pup’s left ear: a hitchhiker from our potty trek.

Husband-doctor brought tweezers in his carry-on, so the pooch was soon saved.

We decided to take the pup into town for a bath and made our bed while Husband scoured the pillows for bugs.

He smashed a spider, and I cried: Hey, that could be a relative!

Not everyone is cut out for camping.

###

Photo of the Magic Forest cabin and outhouse by the author

#Nativewriter

#Nativescience

#Osage

#cynthialcoleman

I was thrilled to spend a chunk of an afternoon in a virtual meeting with a group of writers, scientists, analysts and academics from Indonesia who work with communities on environmental issues.

My role was to offer some notes on my experience with environmental writing, teaching and research in mass media, but—to be honest—I learned more from the Indonesian experts than they learned from me.

The conversation took part courtesy of World Oregon, which brings together people from across the globe to “broaden and deepen public awareness and understanding of international affairs.”

A range of workshops, travel programs, zoom talks and meetings is offered throughout the year to local residents in Oregon and to visitors willing to zoom into meetings.

(Its mission is much like the Fulbright Program—funded by the State Department—that enabled me to spend a recent semester working on Indigenous issues in British Columbia as a visiting scholar.)

Perhaps the most striking element I saw during the meeting is the passion each person brought to the discussion.    

One of the participants, whose expertise is research, said she wanted to speak to me in her own language so I could hear the lilt of her cadence.

She said her efforts make her appreciate her country more and more: from the coastal ranges to the nation’s diversity.

[I’m not sharing names and identities because some of the participants receive threats because of the work they do.]

Palm Oil Culprit

Indonesia is a vast archipelago with 17,000 islands spread across an area of 734,400 square miles: about the size of Mexico.

And it boasts the world’s fourth largest population, behind China, India and the United States.

Another presenter remarked that change comes slowly, in part because the islands are widely spread.

Yet industrialization is chugging along.

Several speakers talked about their frustration over destruction of the country’s hardwood timberlands—including the famous mangroves—tropical rain forests, wetlands, wildlife and sea life for the sake of an economic boost. 

Wikipedia notes that Indonesia is now “the world’s third largest emitter of greenhouse gases” (a result of vehicles and industries) and that poor communities with high poverty rates are trading the country’s lush resources for short-term financial gain.

One flourishing industry is the planting and growth of palm tree plantations that produce a lucrative oil used in an array of products, including shampoo, lotion, soap, ice cream, chocolate bars, cookies, animal feed and biofuel.

Problem is, the plantations replace old-growth forests, which, according to Human Rights Watch, have been “decimated.”

“Indonesia lost 24 hectares of forest cover, an area almost the size of the United Kingdom” in exchange for the plantations, the organization notes.

Today, Indonesia is the world’s leader in crude palm oil production, even though the plant is native to Africa.

Another participant added that the destruction of the tropical forests has hit Indigenous peoples hard.

Such activities are documented in a Human Rights Watch report by researcher Juliana Nnoko-Mewanu, who says that Indonesia’s Indigenous peoples “have suffered significant harm since losing their ancestral forests to oil palm plantations.”

When residents refused to leave their communities, their homes were burned to the ground.

Forests have been irrevocably changed, the report says.

Indigenous Folks in the Cross Hairs

Many Orang Rimba (an Indigenous community in Sumatra) “are now homeless, living in plastic tents, without livelihood support” which disappeared when plantations appeared.

Once self-sufficient, the Orang Rimba “now live in abject poverty.”

Working with the Indigenous communities left one expert feeling “beaten and defeated.”

Government players appear to ignore environmental clashes, and Human Rights Watch reports “they have turned a blind eye to widespread forest clearance” resulting in a “human rights tragedy.”

Indonesia suffers from a “patchwork of weak laws…poor government oversight, and the failure of oil palm plantation companies to fulfill their human rights responsibilities,” which makes the task of pursuing environmental justice Sisyphean, according to the report.

Still, the small band of professionals I met is keen to make an impact on attitudes and drum up support among publics.

In a word, they have…guts.

Sharing Tips

World Oregon asked me to share tips I’ve learned that could help the group’s efforts in environmental integrity.

Here is the transcript of my notes:

I am honored to be invited talk with you today about some of the work I’ve done in environmental communication. And if you have questions after today, please feel free to email me; I would very much like to learn more about Indonesia: and I am confident I will be able to explore your beautiful country one day.

Today I’d like to give you a glimpse at three environmental issues we face in Oregon, which I hope will let us talk about ways that we can communicate about environmental issues more skillfully.

I will offer you a few hints—or—bullet points to help guide you with your communication efforts.

So, to begin, I’d like you to imagine three important features that affect all of us—and that we cannot live without:

•            Fire

•            Air

•            Water

Let’s begin with fire.

This week, Oregon’s governor, Kate Brown, wrote an editorial for The New York Times that is titled:

The West is on Fire.

It’s Past Time to Act on Climate Change.

Kate Brown wrote about how more than 600,000 acres have burned in Southern Oregon, and that 22 out of the state’s 36 counties were declared drought emergencies.

She notes that half of Oregon—30 million acres—is forest land.

What was her point in writing the editorial?

To put pressure on the the Federal government to act more quickly on climate change, and to improve infrastructure.

What we need now, she said:

“Is bold action from Congress.”

I’m bringing this to your attention to illustrate one way that you can get your stories out to mass media.

The Governor is smart: she’s taking advantage of an issue that has already captured the news, and adds another element to keep the issue in the public eye—an opinion-piece in the country’s leading newspaper.

This is something that you can do as an environmental advocate:

#1 Cultivate your networks

You can cultivate experts to write opinion pieces and letters to the editor to help present your side of the story, and this can be a way to reach important publics. For example, The New York Times is read by policy-makers and elected officials, as well as other news editors and reporters around the world.

Now let’s move from fire to air.  

Last year—just about this same time—Portland had the worst air pollution than any other city in the world—worse than Delhi or Beijing.

And while the air pollution story has been a big one in Portland, the deeper issue is that Portland has sustained poor air quality for decades.

The reason?

Like Indonesia, Oregon has industries that release—not hundreds—but millions of pounds of toxic chemicals that affect the air quality.

Despite Portland’s poor air—especially in neighborhoods with African-American, Native Americans and Hispanic populations—most Portland residents are not aware of the pollution.

How do I know?

One of my graduate students at the university where I teach wrote her master’s thesis on the disconnect between the quality of the air and the opinions of Portlanders—who consider the air…

Just.

Fine.  

Her research raises a really questions:

Do we want publics to know about air pollution, and…

How do you communicate with publics about air pollution?

This leads us to another query:

How do you communicate effectively about environmental issues?

One piece of advice comes from efforts to acquaint publics with climate change:

#2 Make it personal

Here’s an example from the Guardian newspaper:

Ella suffered from severe asthma. She grew up and went to school close to the busy South Circular Road in Lewisham, and had cough syncope—a condition usually associated with long-distance lorry drivers who’d been driving for decades. She died at age 9.

You present a story that’s hard to ignore.

As an advocate, you can cultivate news stories for reporters that feature individuals. Reporters are always looking for human interest stories.

OK: we’ve covered fire and air.

What about water?

Oregon—like much of  the western United States—is short on water. Severely.

We are seeing some of the driest weather ever in our state, which has become critical in the Klamath River basin—an area that borders on two states: Oregon and California.

The problem is decades old, and it gets covered in the news media as a conflict with no solution.

The problem is that the resource—water—is scarce.

Water is currently being reserved rather than flushed through the dam where it can be accessed by stakeholders.

The local Native American tribes—in Oregon and in California—depend on the salmon and other fish whose numbers are dwindling rapidly.

For Native Americans, the fish are an essential part of life.

Fish have kept the Klamath and Yurok peoples alive “for all time.”

Fish represent life: We are “Salmon People,” one tribal member reports.

Salmon is more than food: salmon is life.

But the water that has dwindled in the Klamath River is also used for irrigating farm and ranch lands.

It’s a complex issue, and water rights continue to be challenged in the courts. For example, Native Americans are guaranteed first access to fish, but the farmers need access to water for peppermint, potatoes, onions and horseradish.

And ranchers want water for cattle.

Local government agencies blame National agencies; farmers blame American Indians, and Liberals blame Conservatives.

To make matters messier, a group of armed “anti-government” protestors has threatened violence.

One activist told a reporter, “We’re going to turn on the water and have a standoff.”

Is there a way to clean up some of the messiness of the discourse?

One expert suggests: 

#3 Reframe the story

This piece of advice—to shift or reshape the story—comes straight out of advertising. Clever cigarette advertisers found ways to reframe the story to shift attention away from health to one of freedom:

The freedom to choose to smoke.

So, one way to re-consider the water issue in Oregon is to try to see it through a new lens—a new perspective.

Now I am asking our friends from Indonesia a favor:

How would you reframe the water crisis at the Klamath River Basin to ensure that audiences understand the environmental impacts?

To wrap up: today we talked about fire, air and water, and I have shared three bullet points:

#1 Cultivate your networks

#2 Make it personal

#3 Reframe the story

Thank you for listening, and I look forward to seeing you again. ###

National Native American Heritage Month

Image (above) vintage mangrove

#nativescience

#Worldoregon

#nativeamerican

#Indigenousenvironmentalism

#Indonesia

The good thing about traveling is that it encourages you to view foreign places through a new prism.By foreign I mean the United States.

We spent the last few weeks visiting the East Coast, practicing the native tongue and observing unusual customs.

As we lingered over ice cream one afternoon at an historic mill town in New Jersey—now a refurbished tourist attraction—a car horn blared, interrupting the quiet.

The driver seemed stuck to the horn, angry that the car in front had slowed.

The ice cream vendor ran out to the street, yelling, “You are not welcome in our town! Get out!”

We found the noise level much louder than in our berg in Portland.

Our home cacophony is usually the crows making their morning run to the Columbia River, and their evening-time return.

In New York and New Jersey, car horns blare, trains roll through towns, and sirens seem ubiquitous.

Folks speak with much more vigor and emphasis than our neighbors—yelling in the book shop, grocery store, espresso bar and gas station.

The din rose even higher thanks to piped-in music, which seemed to play everywhere; most notably at the outdoor pub where we shared salads and we could hardly hear each other.

When we drank sweet tea at a diner that looked like a postcard from the 1950s, a piano-player serenaded the lunching locals.

And more than once, we chowed down in a cafe with three big-screen televisions tuned to sports.

Drivers were much more aggressive than what we’re used to—weaving in and out of traffic at break-neck speed.

Yet small towns posted speed limits of 30 miles or less, making our feet feel like lead.

Perhaps the biggest surprise was the lack of masks in the towns where we tarried.

While staff at bodegas and eateries were mostly masked, the locals were mask-free while walking their dogs or buying vendables.

Did they feel risk free?

We learned that COVID-19 rates were moderate to high (depending) so we reasoned the rationale for mask-wearing (or not) was a cultural norm.

Maybe we are all—in the end—simple creatures of habit.

#pandemic

#whatstrending

#nativescience

#nativewriter

#noise

#travel

A friend admitted she suffered PTSD because of the pandemic.

I first learned of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder from news about Gulf War soldiers returning home and feeling miserable…disconnected.

And PTSD implies that you may feel the effects long after the insult—hence the reference to “post.”

We talked about the myriad ways lockdown felt stressful.

Outings were limited to walks in the neighborhoods where even the children’s playground was wrapped in yellow caution tape to prevent swinging and sliding.

When we spied another person on the sidewalk we quickly crossed the street to avoid contact.

With restaurants and coffee-houses closed, we shopped for groceries from home—where we now cooked all meals—and ventured out only when grocery stores allowed special access for high-risk patrons.

And when we did shop, we’d find empty aisles where the toilet paper, baby wipes, latex gloves and paper towels were once abundant.

There was even a shortage of bread yeast.

My friend and I were sequestered with our respective partners with no clue when we would once again talk to another soul in person.

Our house is plenty large for two grown-ups and yet we seem to need the drawer or the fridge or the shower at exactly the same time.

The craving for time alone was quashed, yet, somehow, we managed to co-habit without killing each other.

Indeed, our fondness for one another grew.

As the 12-month anniversary of the lockdown—the month of March for us—was checked on the calendar, I thought about how the Pandemic brought some unexpected delights.

For example, I was able to take language classes sponsored by my tribe that were offered online for the first time.

Each Monday I would listen to my teacher speak in Wazhazhe, and I was able to add a few more words to my scant vocabulary.

Because the classes were taught in Oklahoma, sometimes one would be cancelled because of a tribal event, and, once, because of a sleet-storm.

It made me feel like I was back in Pawhuska.

The pandemic brought me a new appreciation for our gardens, where my husband plants tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers, while I bury the bulbs: garlic, onion, sunchokes and potatoes.

We set aside space for herbs and vegetables, including thyme, sage, oregano, marjoram, basil, chervil, parsley, cilantro, mint, rosemary, lavender, verbena, bay leaf, bloody dock, arugula, lettuce and spinach, and we planted edible and decorative flowers like calendula, violets, poppies, nasturtium, peonies, dahlias, daisies, statice, lantana, chrysthanamums, tobacco, marigolds and cosmos.

The honey bees love the poppies and lavender, and when the herbs bolt, bees flock to the flower-buds, which dip from the weight of the critters.

The bees inspired me to carve their likeness onto a linoleum block, and I inked some greeting cards with a rendering of their fuzzy backs and delicate wings.

Many sunny afternoons I sit outside with a cool drink and carve out images or paint with watercolors: my reward for sludging through another day of disconnectedness.

The healing comes slowly: a golden lily blooms in the soil, a finch darts to the bird feeder, and the yellow tape disappears from the playground.

###

5-6 September 2021

#pandemic
#whatstrending
#wazhazhe
#nativescience
#osage
#nativewriter