Why I wrote Hawk Dancer
(The second version)

The stories and experiences of folks I knew that grew up in what some people call two worlds, Indigenous American and Euro-American were common place for me. Their telling had fibers of humor woven in that softened the coarser fibers of life. We could sit and laugh all afternoon or in the late evening until it hurt. We talked of life. We talked about unjust arrests and detainments, of being blocked from visiting the graves of relatives, the antics of little kids, love of women and trouble with women.

The women, in turn had their stories to tell about men. We men were useless, had fragile egos that needed caressing and very short attention spans and left the toilet seat up. (Hey, ladies, look before you sit.)

Some great people in my later life began pumping me for these stories. Some told me they had no clue what it was like to live in two worlds. Frankly, I was aware of only one world and figured we all lived in it as relatives. We might have had different philosophies and customs, but the same great Earth. Some call the world Mother Earth, some say Grand Mother Earth.

It’s the same when we talk of Deo. I hear talk of my Deo and your Deo, A White Deo and Red Deo. English speakers borrow the Germanic word for Deo and say God. French used another word or name, Dieux. I guess stumbling over those vowels made it easy to skip the last letter in the way they say it.

A fundamentalist Catholic told me the Latin rules are plain – say Father not Grandfather, or risk eternal Hell’s fire. I imitate Latin the best anyone my age and older can, but never studied it enough to argue the point with him. Same guy was ordained a priest by a poor Bishop with serious memory problems, was assigned to a Reservation in North Dakota. The Latin Priest told the Ojibwe up there they aren’t allowed to speak their language while burying a relative because the Priest can’t understand the language.

I wonder if he’d say the same of the current and past Pope if either wanted to bury a relative back in their old home lands. (Of course the relative to be buried would be dead).

That’s what finally got me to thinking a book about respecting all followers of Mio Deo needed to be written for every seminarian to read. (I think that’s Deo-may in Latin, mahn-doo in French and mein Gott in German).

Some folks on this planet prayed, “Our Father;” while others prayed, “Our Grandfather.” (Abdoona in the Syrian Catholic Churches).

Creator is a Great Father, and whether one wants to argue the fundamentals and semantics of the title, Father or Grandfather, we can all agree He is Grand. A Grandfather by any other name is a Father.

O’pa is either a Grandfather in Holland or a cry given out when a waiter ignites a piece of liquored up old cheese in a Greek restaurant. Does this mean some kid raised by a Dutch daddy and a Greek mama could be said to be dangerously living in two worlds?

So I figured I’d write a book on three cultures; not three worlds – just three of the many cultures in the one and only world I know about. Those three are: The Native Americans (Aboriginal is a popular term in Canada), Métis (mixed-breed is a vulgar term here in the USA or mixed-blood to tone it down a bit), and the Euro-Americans, (who tell me they prefer to be called White). Then I could go back and forth and use all the terms I grew up with: Mother Earth and Grandmother Earth, Father in Heaven, Almighty Father, Great Father, Grandfather, Great Mystery and the ever popular title of Great Spirit; same Person – just various endearments.

Some folks call it an Indian book, but it’s not an NDN book. It’s a tri-cultural book. “Los tres culturas de la Guadalupe,” is how I described the book in one of four major non-indigenous languages currently in use in these lands; a language I do not speak.

The book started out as a long short story called The Cure. My instructor liked it and said it has the makings of becoming a novel. My ego is well tuned and I went for it.

It took me about five years to write Hawk Dancer. I had no illusions, at least in the beginning, that I would actually be published some day.

I wanted the story to get published, but I knew the chances were very remote. So, it may be needless to say making money and fame was not a driving force, though the thought did cross by in a few moments of day dreaming.

Paternal Uncle Charlie Browne was very encouraging. We worked as if this would get published, even though we figured the chances were remote. We drew on experiences, our own and from the stories others told us.

Then a retired art teacher, Kathy Johnson, got involved. Uncle Charlie showed her sections of the novel while it was still just a literary piece in the development. She asked if she could illustrate it. I was astounded. I must have written Charlie a few times to make certain Kathy Johnson understood that I had no money to pay her and that we don’t know if the book would ever be accepted for publication.

We were writing primarily out of pure enjoyment, the thrill of weaving a story on our own. Story telling is a family tradition. Some of those stories even have a certain level truth. Charlie did a lot of research and is the editor and proof reader. He offered lots of advice and corrections. His wife, my Aunt Elaine likewise aided in the proof reading, corrections and as an advisor. Kathy Johnson insisted she wanted to illustrate the story because she enjoyed it so. I dare say, besides her being such an excellent artist, her pictures are perfect interpretations of what I was trying to portray through words.

After it was published another priest told Jan and I that it is dangerous to be Métis and Catholic; it’s like ridding two horses. We told him our parents aren’t horses.

Another Priest told Jan Baptist, the Métis man (Ojibwe/French), that he is no longe a relative of his family because his Grandparents were Indigenous. That priest (Rev. Fr. Kokkonout) just arrived from Asia-India (as in Real Indian) and swiftly bought into the racist American standard of Blood-quantum counting to determin what percent of Catholic, Hindi, or what ever religions and racial mixes a person is able to claim according to ancestoral marriages. (I seriously doubt he would make such a claim about the 3rd generation Irish/Americans at a St. Patrict Day party).

Next thing I knew, folks wanted to exclaustrate me, or excommunicate me. I’ve heard all sorts of negative things about the book by folks who didn’t read it. I’ve also received very positive feed back from those who did read it. They want to know when my next book is coming out.

I am happy to announce the 2nd book is out, Cloudburst.
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Disclaimer: This is a humorous version of my original paper by the same title. Jan Baptiste, a Métis, helped me work out this version. This followed one of the most outlandish assaults I have had concerning the rule and constitution I wrote for the Franciscan Friars of the Congregation of St. James. The most hideous, but also stupidly humorous accusations by a small number of people in Religious Life wrote to Rome thinking I had already set up the order and were about to bail out on the Sacred Vows I took some years ago. Apparently they do not know what the words “fiction” and “Novel” means. All-in-all, I do admit, I would like to see the Congregation of St. James be started up. The ignorance and hatred, and bare-face lies from those opposed have convince me that we need a Religious Order like that or similar.