Cynthia (Ištá Tȟó Tȟó) Coleman Emery's Blog

Here’s an idea: Pack for one week

What’s amazing is that even after five decades of trekking the globe, I’m still learning how to be a competent traveler.

My first solo trip was as an eight-year-old.

My parents loaded me on a Greyhound bus for a 300-mile trip from Long Beach to Salinas to visit my cousins.

Since then I’ve honed my packing skills and know to pocket Dramamine, extra cash, Kleenex and bottled water wherever I go.

We just returned from India where I needed …

• Dramamine for five hours of endless curlicues to the high plains of Munnar (and I still threw up)
• Extra cash for the restrooms that charge a user fee
• Kleenex because there’s no toilet paper in the restrooms that charge a user fee
• Bottled water to avoid diarrhea-inducing tap-water

The biggest life lesson for me was learning how to pack fewer clothes.

The epiphany emerged when I spent a summer in Washington, D.C. on fellowship at the National Museum of the American Indian.

I packed and repacked and packed again, until I made a fateful decision: Just pack enough for one week.

Taking one carry-on bag was liberating.

I packed only enough clothing for one week and used the washing facilities at my sub-let.

I learned to limit my clothing palette to the basics: white or beige and black or blue, with colorful scarves and sweaters to add spice.

When we travelled to London this month I sported one vibrant scarf, one dress, one pair of leggings, one pair of socks and one pair of boots, which I wore for three days and then packed in my carry-on bag (along with my winter coat) and stored at the hotel while we traipsed from London to India.

To plan for India, I had tucked a smaller bag inside my carry-on when I arrived in London.

Once packed for India, my bag and purse weighed 2 kilos less than our allowable 7 kilos (15.4 pounds).

I boarded the plane at Heathrow with sandals (in December)—sturdy, sole-supporting and breathable Keens—and took three pair of capri leggings, four summer dresses, one lightweight wedding-appropriate dress, one summer nightgown, one sweater, one scarf, and a week’s worth of underwear.

With bright, hot weather I needed sunblock which doubled for body lotion and found a lipstick that lasts 24 hours, which I topped off with chapstick throughout the day.

After years of searching for the perfect purse I settled on a cross-body—rather than a backpack or shoulder bag—constructed of thick fabric rather than heavy leather.

The sturdy and light-weight bag has three distinct, zipped compartments and holds my wallet, passport, cell-phone, book, medicine bag, large water bottle and leaves enough room to close the top zipper.

Turns out I had everything I needed to traverse India: cool clothing, bottled water, and motion-sickness meds.

It only took 50 years to sort it out.

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8 January 2018

#nativewriter

#nativepress

#osage

#wahshashe

#whatstrending

#packfortravel

Felicitous new year

The signage in South India is fascinating.

Restaurants have “homely” food and you can get a haircut in a “saloon.”

Our haircuts and our hair coloring make us stand out like a beam in a lighthouse.

No one, I mean no one, has white hair like we do.

The women and the men dye their hair black black black and they can’t understand why somebody would want to show off their white locks.

The language here, Malayalum, is insurmountable.

I usually try to learn a few words in the language of the country where I’m going to travel.

For example, we listened to Turkish tapes before our trip to Istanbul.

We couldn’t remember one word once we had landed.

Malayalum sounds like you’re trying to make pretzels with your lips.

So we just speak English and use sign language while we are in India.

We’ve managed to learn the words of much of the food, however.

In addition to homemade breads we get lots of curry here: fish curry, chicken curry, and lamb curry.

And it is highly spiced.

My refuge is bananas.

The local variety is a small, very sweet, yellow banana, which has sated my appetite on more than one occasion.

We drink lots of bottled water, which is plentiful, and have discovered toddy, a fermented coconut drink very much like kombucha.

Our hosts have found a delightful lodging with hot water (mostly) and western-style bathrooms.

Still, we occasionally run into a local bathroom while trekking across country.

Local toilets are called squats.

I leave the rest to your imagination.

The best sign I’ve seen so far is for a restroom that reads:

TOILET

FELICITY

HERE

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Sign at a national park

1 January 2019

@nativescience

@Nativewriter

Echo and Narcissus by John William Waterhouse

Does the Collective Matter? When?

When you research “ways of knowing” among cultures, you find solid evidence that communities are important.

Primitive is the new modern, as we come to realize that it takes many hands to steer a child with love and care.

My favorite metaphor is our (Native) word for “father”—which is the same word for uncle.

All those fathers and uncles stand ready to help the youngin’ into adulthood.

And not just Indians.

My father’s brothers—all refugees from the outback of West Virginia—landed in Southern California after the Korean War.

And each helped raise his brother’s children.

My mother’s clan—the Native American offspring—sent kids to live with sisters and brothers and aunties and uncles, knowing their children would be safe.

My youngest sister came to live with me (I was working in California) during her high school years.

My parents moved to a country with no schools for young women, so they dispatched my sister into my care.

I welcomed the chance to teach her how to navigate life in the United States: how to manage money and how to drive a car.

Later, when my sister decided on college, she chose one close to me, and she became second mother to my babies.

Families remind us that we are not alone, and, for some of us, never alone.

When I hear a CEO or politician brag that only she (or he) can guide us through a crisis, I feel sorry for the sheer nearsightedness.

Most leaders are equipped with a bevy of educated, seasoned mavens whose expertise should be heeded.

The problem arises when confidantes are afraid to be candid, from fear of reproach.

A mature leader needs more than sycophants, brown-nosers, and “yessirs.”

Just like children, to nurture a leader—it takes a village.

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Day 27: Native American Heritage Month

27 November 2018

#mefirst

#portlandia

#bearpeople

#morality

#monopoly

#thanksgiving

#nativewriter

#nativepress

#cetisawkin

#kiyuska

#nationalnativeamericanheritagemonth

#mahtotatonka

#bearrobe

#henrichatillon

#oldsmoke

#osage

#wahshashe

#whatstrending

#thebuddhaway

#deplorable

#dumptrump

It’s all about me

Sometimes the secret to dissecting an issue is to carve through the sinew.

A word like “Thanksgiving” creates its own semiotic map.

At its most basic, the word means, “Giving thanks.”

When my children were little, we went around the table sharing words about why we were thankful.

The kids were good sports: after some eye-rolling, they obliged their elders with words of gratitude.

At many American Indian gatherings, offering thanks book-ends the events: an elder will open a meeting by acknowledging that we are not alone.

And a respected person will close the meeting, offering thanks.

This year I mused about what Thanksgiving means to me, and I landed on a point that often goes unnoticed.

Thanksgiving forces us out of our cocoons, and we realize—for a moment—that we are all woven within the threads that comprise the tapestry.

All my Thanksgivings were and are rich with relatives and friends and neighbors.

What makes the holiday unique is the acknowledgement that we are not alone.

Many Native American peoples celebrate the autumnal harvest with a bountiful feast, shared with others, with the understanding that we are connected to each other, and to our surroundings that support us.

Giving thanks, therefore, means we acknowledge, recognize and honor all the beings, critters and life-forms that support us, and that make for a community of souls.

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Day 22: Native American Heritage Month

22 November 2018

#bearpeople

#thanksgiving

#nativewriter

#nativepress

#cetisawkin

#kiyuska

#nationalnativeamericanheritagemonth

#mahtotatonka

#bearrobe

#henrichatillon

#oldsmoke

#osage

#wahshashe

#whatstrending

#thebuddhaway

#deplorable

#dumptrump

Identity Politics

I’m a raccoon.

What you need to know, first, is that being a raccoon is not the same as being a member of an American Indian family, band or clan.

For example, woven into the Sioux thread of my ancestry are the Kiyuskas, who considered themselves Bear People.

The story is told that Mahto Tatonka (Bull Bear), who was mean-spirited and spiteful, led the Kiyuskas.

One of his daughters, Bear Robe, married my ancestor Henri Chatillon, Francis Parkman’s guide on the Oregon trail.

Their daughter, Emilie, married a mixed-blood Osage.

And the rest is, well, my history.

Bear People.

But no raccoons.

Until now.

The psyche of raccoons is best articulated by actor and comedian Maria Bamford.

Bamford explains raccoons are critters that break into your kitchen, unscrew caps from bottles, and tear into food cartons leaving debris in their wake.

A raccoon tribe is called a “gaze,” which repairs to the river at night to share the loot.

As much as I would love to embrace the courage and ferocity of my ancestor bear, I’m stuck with the raccoon people.

The gaze.

Watch Maria Bamford’s take on raccoons:

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Today’s blog is for Maria Bamford

Raccoon image used with permission from http://www.kisscc0.com

Day 16: Native American Heritage Month

16 November 2018

#Mariabamford

#bearpeople

#raccoonpeople

#nativewriter

#nativepress

#cetisawkin

#kiyuska

#nationalnativeamericanheritagemonth

#mahtotatonka

#bearrobe

#henrichatilon

#oldsmoke

#osage

#wahshashe

#whatstrending

#thebuddhaway

#deplorable

#dumptrump