#disappearnce

"The myth of disappearing Native peoples is very strong in the United States. Indigenous communities are seen by non-Native audiences as part of a historic and past frontier that now only exists in archives, museums, and libraries. We don't often learn how this stereotype of disappearance is the result of state and government policies of forced Indigenous removal, forced assimilation (through boarding schools), and the process of termination (legally erasing Native nations from existing). Art, literature, and films made by non-Native peoples policed the boundaries of what could be seen as ‘authentic’ Native culture and exported ideas of Indigenous ‘disappearance’ globally, perpetuating damaging stereotypes to this day. 

Showcasing museum objects that non-Native audiences rarely see, like the 20th century Seminole dress or Haudenosaunee beaded caps on view in this exhibition, challenges viewers to think about Native presence and production long after the colonial and ‘frontier’ eras. Pairing these items with garments and headgear crafted by Jeffery Gibson reminds audiences that Native arts, culture, and community remain present to this day and demands that we expand the boundaries of what constitutes Indigenous material. Put into the same space, viewers are invited to confront their assumptions about Native history and art, see historic collections with fresh eyes, and consider how contemporary artists and Native communities are in productive dialogue with their past and future."  — Dr. Christian Ayne Crouch

In observance of National Native American Heritage Month, this November we’ll be exploring the themes of the exhibition When Fire Is Applied to a Stone It Cracks, with commentary from both Jeffrey Gibson and historian Dr. Christian Ayne Crouch.

Dear Diary,

You're probably wondering where I've been. Well, according to the classified report, the following words have been tossed around regarding my disappearance: cult, coma, condos, catastrophic injustice.

In what I'm assuming has to be considered the single greatest breakdown in communication between American law enforcement agents and an Anglo-Brazilian tribe that worships Hollywood celebrities, I was kidnapped (while on my way to finally ask out the grocery store lady's daughter through her). Believing me to be the son of a famous actor (weird that I never figured out who), the wildly attractive natives drugged me and flew me back to their headquarters, a beautifully landscaped condo community set somewhere deep in the South American rainforest.

Two things were certain:

They were in the middle of one hell of an identity crisis.

They were pissed when they found out I was just a guy plagued with crippling loneliness and not a drug addiction as an act of rebellion against his famous father (again, never figured out who it was).

From there, I was left alone. Left to wander the gorgeous complex by myself, I began spying on the locals out of boredom (and because, honestly, there were some serious babes in the cult). Their rituals included everything from potions to tabloids. There was also a great deal of fornicating and skinny-dipping. However, the farthest I got was second base with one of the taller gals when she, in the middle of a drug hallucination, stumbled into the condo I had been given calling me "Me Mufasa." I obeyed accordingly, and it wasn't until I commented on her butt as "fucking awesome" that she realized that I was not her god-like mate. I was just some twenty-something white male with a Encyclopedia-esque knowledge of Doctor Who and a laugh that some/many would describe as "effeminate."

Still, I grew concerned that I might not see my loved ones again. But this was quickly countered with the realization that these people may actually be nicer to me.

And then Fantua'na happened.

Fantua'na, for those who of you who didn't subscribe to my newsletter (which was essentially what I wrote down on a piece of paper and then read aloud from my balcony overlooking the community pool), was the super hot village virgin. The daughter of a priest and a nun that were supposedly blessed with immaculate conception/too much cherry rum, Fantua'na grew up untouchable (her father was also a sharpshooter and her mother was a knifethrower - I guess shit got boring in church) as well as stupefyingly smokin' hot and gorgeously naive.

With skin like as smooth as a water slide and a laugh that I'd describe as a "happy ending" massage on a winter's night, she was perfect. She didn't speak my language (nor did anyone else in the condo village, by the way), but we shared a bond that I believe only came about because of her thinking I too was a virgin. Seeing as how everyone else in the village was sex-crazed, she came to believe that I was the only person capable of being her equal. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a kidnapped guy about to bang the hottest virgin since Jesus.

Well, that's when things went haywire.

Finally in love and appreciated in return at the same time, I grew extremely close with Fantua'na. She came to my condo to watch and rewatch one of only two DVDs in the cabinet, The Godfather (the other one was Kangaroo Jack, which, to this day, I still have not seen). Somewhere around the hundredth viewing, she came to think of me as a mafia tough guy, but still alongside the virgin banner. This drove her wild. Seriously crazy. This girl was down to get wild in the wilderness, and who was I to say no?

Right? Well, her father and mother felt differently. And so did everyone else in the village apparently.

I couldn't truly understand anyone, but I'm almost sure there was talk for a while of letting her burn at the stake instead of letting me go beyond kissing (which we only did a few times, but it was fucking awesome). 

This is when they called the United States and demanded a ransom. Guess what? The U.S. still doesn't negotiate with terrorists, which they weren't. Then the tribe called cult referred to me as "America's favorite son," which I'm not. At best, I'm the character they bring in as a hail mary during the last season of a television show that slams the final nail into the coffin.

I was downgraded to a "peace offering" by the condescending villagers.

My parents finally put in a missing person report and, apparently, it lined up with the U.S. government's list, and I'd rather not reveal the keyword that linked the too, because my pride has already taken enough of a beating in the new year, thanks to a goddess among babes wanting to be a charitable florist by giving me her flower on the house.

Though I would've taken it in a field. 

Or under a waterfall.

Seriously, anything above a gas station restroom would've been fine.

Or anywhere else.

Seriously. Anywhere.

I imagine I left a part of me back there in that rainforest condo community. I don't want to say it was just my heart, so I'll go with "my entire happiness forever."

Anyway, the U.S. sent a group of novice soldiers to "rescue" me just as I was about to slay the dragon that had not even gleamed a sword.

There, on my bed, ready to become a great deal more than I had ever been, I was removing the necklace that adorned the perfect neck of the very flawless Fantua'na when the recruits kicked in the door of my condo. I couldn't hear what they were yelling at me, due to the cheers and joyous cries of the village, but they got me the hell out of there and out onto the sidewalk. At some point, her father-father kicked me down the stairs.

Oh, how Fantua'na wailed with sadness. I'm not sure if she killed herself or what, but she was holding a knife pretty crazily as I was being dragged to the helicopter. Not wanting to reveal how heartbroken I was, I went with revealing how extraordinarily confused I was, so I bellowed, "This is just like Lost!"

Once in the helicopter, I asked for pretzels to cope with it all. Instead, they stuck me with a needle and filled me with drugs that I could not even begin to explain as anything further than morphine mixed with a heroin.

It turns out that was a real reckless move on their part, and my body shut down. I was in a Spanish-speaking hospital for several weeks, though it was only supposed to be a few days. The military dudes went on a bender and forgot I was there. When I awoke, I started asking as many questions as I could, though I was only met with annoyed eyes and then hands that again filled me with bad drugs. After my second drug-induced coma, I woke up in an embassy on a couch with my parents talking things over with a leader I'd never seen before and assumed I hadn't vote for.

Finally, they gave me a lollipop, sent me home, and threatened to kill me if I ever spoke of my time with the Anglo-Brazilian condo cult to the media. I asked if I could talk about it on my blog, and they said it was ok, since nobody really reads my blog and it was "mostly filled with the whiney ramblings of a guy who desperately needs to get laid" anyway.

That was a few days ago.

Also, I bought an iPhone.