St. Joseph’s Indian School

 

 

For a couple of years now, I feel as though I have adopted many children just by sending them cards, letters, and sometimes gifts. I love them. It is the most wonderful thing in the world to do. I hope that anyone interested would consider these beautiful Lokota Indian children by sending them a card, a letter and/or a small donation or gift. Anything at all would make a difference in their lives. They have already lost so much that is breaks my heart and so giving just a little love, joy, and care helps them so much.

Native American (Lakota) Culture

Culture is defined as the established beliefs, social norms, customs and traditions of a group of people. The same is true for Native American culture. Factors like geography, history and generations of spirituality, stories and traditions also shape the culture of any given tribe or people. Native Americans are no exception.

Here at St. Joseph’s Indian School, we have had the privilege of working with Native American families and communities since 1927. In 1991, the Akta Lakota Museum & Cultural Center was established on our campus to honor and preserve the historical artifacts and contemporary art that tell the story of the Lakota (Sioux) people of the Northern Plains.

Native American culture is sometimes thought of as a thing of the past. However, contemporary powwows, art and language revitalization efforts make a real difference in their lives as their traditional identity.

Writing Books for Us and Them: Diversity for Writers, Readers, and Publishers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Economics of Diversity by Dana Isaacson

The big publishers release titles from across the political spectrum. While some of their imprints may have an ideological focus, many cross boundaries. Why are publishers so fair-minded? Well, it’s not exactly that: it makes economic sense for Macmillan to publish Michael Wolff’s Fire and Fury while simultaneously having a conservative imprint All Points Books. Simon and Schuster sells Hillary’s What Happened and Ivana’s Raising Trump.

While there’s an ongoing publishing saga of under-representation among numerous groups, still, when authors like Margaret Atwood, Kevin Kwan, Jesmyn Ward, Ta-Nehisi Coates, David Sedaris, and Caitlyn Jenner sell huge numbers of books, surely some progress is being made.

Shhhh!

Some popular career authors have been criticized for expressing their political opinions on their own Facebook page. One bestselling author who, after expressing her opinions about the president—she “refuses to shut up”—got online responses like, “I didn’t come here to read this. I used to love your books and will never buy them again.” One outraged commentor promoted a phone campaign against this writer to her publisher. Undeterred, this career author politely responds to these comments with “Bye!” It seems sad that online cranks are depriving themselves of her delightful novels, which they formerly loved. Freedom of speech is a constitutional right that I hope we can agree to endorse, especially in forums created for just that.

Disagreement among friends or colleagues is not a deal-breaker.

Robin Williams said, “A friend is someone who listens to your bullshit, tells you that it is bullshit and listens some more.” Are not authors and their readers friends, or at least participants in a meaningful dialogue?

Sensitivity

While non-fiction political potboilers are selling like hotcakes, these days fiction featuring politics or political characters are a tougher sell. Fiction readers want to escape the overwhelming daily barrage of politics. But that doesn’t mean alternative or oppositional voices should not be heard from within works of either non-fiction or fiction.

Often when I ask writers whom their intended readership is, they answer, “Everyone!” If so, it’s wise to include diverse opinions. In their work, a writer may cloak themselves in anonymity, but their own perceptions and viewpoints naturally inform their literary labors. Adept (or perhaps “woke”) fiction writers may question their ingrained viewpoint, sometimes with oppositional characters. If novels are about character growth, conflict and debate are necessities. Career authors of fiction have ample opportunity to provide voices in counterpoint. It could be in their protagonist’s thoughts or the dialogue of others.

Fictional characters may passionately debate hot-button issues that folks are reluctant to voice in public these days.

Authors may also discover their characters are free agents. Hank Phillippi Ryan has spoken of how hers often do just as they please while she breathlessly records their actions and words on her laptop.

Alternative viewpoints

It’s not necessarily that you are writing a novel with a political agenda but instead more inclusively exploring the world at large. Rita Mae Brown says she doesn’t write “gay novels” because that would limit the scope of her fiction to a particular group of people.

Beyond their vast imaginations, careful observation and research, career authors have additional tools at their disposal to portray with accuracy people different from themselves. It’s fairly common for writers to seek and use feedback from a crew of beta readers—often friends and other kindly acquaintances.

Just lately, specialized services of this sort have been monetized. Career authors whose work explore alternative POVs may hire “sensitivity readers” to vet their books—specialized beta readers. For example, an African American author might hire a Native American reader to verify they are correctly describing Pueblo burial traditions. This sensitivity reader might reflect on other aspects of the book, perhaps a character’s emotions, discussing their own reactions in similar circumstances.

To some, this raises the question of whether political correctness or groupthink could inhibit the creative fiction-writing process. I’d counter that it allows another informed and interesting voice to be heard from the cast of characters, which during revisions an author is entirely free to heed or not. It seems a positive development for storytellers to seek inclusiveness. Raising questions is a good thing.

Seditious reading

Readers who carefully avoid political discussions at parties, family gatherings, and other public forums may still curl up with a Maya Angelou novel, or sneak a read of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead to see what all the fuss is about. Dan Brown might do the trick, or perhaps Tom Perrotta. Maybe dipping into a Sophie Kinsella novel or Harlequin romance is what some readers might crave at just that moment. It’s no longer a problem to shield book covers, and expanding literary horizons is greatly encouraged.

Your mission, should you accept it…

Even as certain writers leave little in their plots to interpretation, it remains the reader’s task to sort through ideas and come to their own conclusions. Over a hundred years ago, the novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin altered the dialogue about slavery. In more recent times, Judith Rossner’s Looking for Mr. Goodbar caused a public discussion of misogyny and womens liberation. Bret Easton Ellis went more bonkers in the misogyny direction in American Psycho. Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses launched hysteria, as well as a debate on satire. And E.L James… um, well… Can fiction be just as influential and powerful today?

In divided times, books provide a time-honored forum for meaningful discourse among writers, readers, and thinkers about contemporary issues. In your writing, without restraints or fear of criticism, seek new angles and POVs. Can you address opposing views? Literature can be a provocateur, a liberator, and potentially a unifier.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dana Isaacson worked as Senior Editor at Penguin Random House for thirteen years. There, he edited a wide variety of titles—from bestselling commercial fiction to literary biographies and historical narratives. Prior to that, he was an editor at various publishing houses, including Pocket Books and Regan Books. He has also been an abridger, literary agent, writer, book doctor, and ghostwriter. Now a freelance editor, more information about Dana Isaacson can be found at http://www.danaisaacson.com

An Interview With Judy Rumsey Bullard, Book Cover Designer, This Saturday, October 20th!

 

 

 

 

 

As writers and authors, we know or should know, the importance of creating a book cover that shines. The cover should also represent as much as possible what the novel is all about. On October 20th, 2018, I will be interviewing Judy Rumsey Bullard, a very talented Book Cover Designer, who will talk to us about Book Cover Designing. She will be displaying 6 more of her great designs, and will talk to us about what it takes to be a successful Book Cover Designer! Here are three Book Cover designs that she designed for three of my novels and I love each one!

 

The Soulful Arc of the Universe

 “….the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

“When our days become dreary with low-hovering clouds of despair, and when our nights become darker than a thousand dark midnights. Let us remember that there is a creative force in this universe working to pull down the gigantic mountains of evil, a power that is able to make a way out of no way and transform dark yesterdays into bright tomorrows.….the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

MLK

The Tale of The Harpy – A Scary Short Story by K. D. Dowdall

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wish for a tropical breeze to lighten the intense humidity that hugs this August morning.  The porch, thank goodness, is high off the ground and the mildew on the screens somewhat block the steamy rays from the sun.  The sky is intensely blue and the ocean is still and quiet—waiting. I breathe in slowly through my nose and exhale gently through my mouth, waiting for what I know must come. I feel powerless to change my fate.

My notebook is before me and I stare at the cover, that I am unwilling to open.  I have been siting here now for what seems like hours trying to begin a story that I must tell.   I must make sense of it, at least in my own mind. Perspiration drips from the corners of my temples.  Tendrils of fading blond curls are damp across my forehead and I push them aside with the back of my hand.

The old mahogany rocking chair I sit in, with its old cane seat, presses into my bare legs making my skin feel sticky and I am sure that deep patterns are now embed on the backs of my thighs that might blister, courtesy of the mahogany chair.  I shift uncomfortably, and vow to retrieve a pillow from the sofa when next I rise.

The breeze I have been waiting for finally arrives like a soft whisper across my cheek and I turn my face toward its source, the sky and sea.  In the morning light, I open the notebook and stare at the empty pages, that are now somewhat damp from the humid air and I begin again searching for the right words, the truest of words. It will come to me…..I know it will. I close my eyes and I try to remember all of it

_____________________

 It began some years ago.  I was standing on this screened in porch with my cousin, Jordan. It was after the funeral of my great Aunt who willed me this beach house that sits comfortably overlooking the ocean.

The sky was a vivid blue and the sea was quiet, until quite suddenly, a quickly moving storm, crossed the horizon and blocked out the sun. Darkness came, and a whispered voice, close to my ear, spoke, “Dare ye not linger lest she bring a curse upon ye, child.”

I turned quickly to the voice, but no one was there. A chill went up my spine. I thought I had imagined it. Moments later, again, the disembodied voice spoke, “Dare ye not linger lest she bring a curse upon ye, child!” This time the voice was urgent and fearful.

I began to tremble with an unreasonable fear, of what—I did not know. I grabbed my cousin Jordan’s arm to plead with him to let us head for home. He took no notice of me and continued to stare at something that was standing beyond the gate. I turned to look and before us was something that could only have materialized out of a Grimm’s fairy tale.

An unearthly woman glared at me from beyond the gate, and her dark crystal eyes began to glow so brightly that the darkness disappeared around us. The hag-like woman, lifted by unseen wings, soared over the gate.

The whispering voice behind me suddenly gave out an ear-splitting scream that shook the floor where I stood. The hag-like apparition beyond the screened porch screeched with such an unearthly sound that I dared not move, even if I could. I was still holding Jordan’s arm and he turned to me as if to wonder what I was doing.

“Jordan,” I whispered, “What is that?”

“What is what, Ana?”

“You know, the old hag, the woman, Jordan.”

“Ana, there is no woman, only a light in the window from the cottage down the road, but there was nothing to it. Let’s go home.”

I was incredulous. Was I the only one who saw the woman and heard the unearthly screams?  My young cousins, Richie and Anise seemed not to be at all aware of what had happened as they played along the beach before me.

I couldn’t understand what was wrong with them and then once again, I heard the whispering voice behind me and I angrily turned to respond. The whispering apparition was floating in the air, now in front of me, her long dark hair was whirling around her head as though she was in the center of great storm, “Thou art hexed, forsaken in ye life, poor child,” she said. “I begged thee not to gaze upon the Harpy.”

The apparition’s voice was sad and low as she slowly vanished before me. The sky was once again blue, and the sea was quiet now. The storm was gone along with the screeching old hag.

______________________

The Mahogany chair is now hotter against my thighs as the chair begins to rock back and forth. I know she is coming. I look beyond the screened porch, knowing she will come. I see her now, the Harpy, she stands beyond the porch. Her dark crystal eyes glare at me, as her dark mane of hair blows in the dark storm she brings with her.

Another form appears on the porch, near me. It is the apparition, I now know as Nellie, who has been protecting me all of these years. The Harpy’s unholy screech suddenly pierces the air and in turn, Nellie’s high pitch scream drowns out all else.

Then it finally comes to me, the truest words: “Do not look at the creature, the Harpy. Do not listen to her screams, should you hear them, and abide this warning: Go as far away as you can, a quick as you can—for it is far too late for me.”

 

 

The Boy With The Indigo Eyes – A Short Story by K. D. Dowdall

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jenna Sweet was taking a walk back in time. It was now mid-afternoon, sunny and warm. A slight breeze rustled through the trees. A dog barked in the distance. She walked along the side walk, not really aware of where she was headed. Jenna guessed it was by instinct alone, a path she could not forgot. A narrow bridge was ahead of her and Jenna knew it was the bridge that crossed over Stoney Brook.

It was a place where she swam and frolicked as a kid. It was where her mother and her aunt would bring lunch for Jenna and her cousins. Her mom and Aunt would sit around the picnic table talking, laughing, and smoking cigarettes. Both of them have been gone for a very long time now. It was a terrible accident. It changed all of their lives forever.

Jenna stood looking over the bridge, looking down into the rippling water feeling pensive and sad. She listened to the flow of the brook over the rocks and stones as the afternoon sunlight glittered on the water like sparklers on the fourth of July.  She breathed in the sweet smell of the glacier-fed brook and the musky scent of wet moss along its banks. A long kept memory of a young stranger came flooding back into her consciousness from the past.

Jenna was once again walking through the forest and it was cool and shadowy. She remembered how the sunlight coming through the tree tops dappled the forest floor with shades of sun-kissed yellow.  The forest, thought Jenna, was a masterpiece of infinite color, with shimmering emerald leaves, azure sky above, and chestnut brown earth below.  The pungent memory scent of evergreens enveloped Jenna’s senses. She remembered the feel of the waxy substance of the fallen leaves beneath her bare feet as she padded through the dense forest and listened for the sound of water against rock. She would follow the sound to discover the hidden part of the Brook that few had ever ventured to see.

Beneath the forest canopy she heard a slight rustle and then she saw the boy. His long slender legs moved with an effortless grace like a white-tailed deer through the brambles and bushes. He leaped dancer-like over decaying logs and skipped stone by stone over mossy growths, wet with dew.

The tall, dark-haired boy stopped now and again to smell the air as he made his way through the forest. Jenna, Indian-like, followed the boy through the brambles and bushes. She was almost close enough now to see his nostrils flare. In the distance, Jenna heard the flow of water over pebbles and stones as she followed the stranger who followed the sound of the brook.

Ahead of them were large granite boulders and the sound of rippling waters. She watched the boy as he skillfully scampered over the huge glacier boulders and disappeared from view. Jenna followed suit and climbed over the boulders to reach the rocky banks of the brook, but when she looked around, the boy was nowhere to be seen. She sat down for a moment and sighed as she wondered who he was and why she had never seen him before. After all, reasoned Jenna, this was a small farming community with only one middle school.

Jenna dangled her feet above the crystal clear water as she looked at her reflection that was gazing back at her. Her long golden brown braids framed a face that was tanned from the summer sun, hazel eyes now as deeply green as the moss beneath her feet.

She then slipped her slender pubescent body into the cool waters of the brook and was suddenly struck by an incredible sense of freedom within her being that was exhilarating and daunting at the same time. She was growing up and her life and all of life was before her.

Jenna looked down and saw that the wet cloth of her blouse had fallen away, revealing how her body was changing. Suddenly, she was aware of someone looking at her from above. It was the tall dark-haired boy. He was looking down at her. She was sure he had been watching her and then he smiled. Jenna blushed crimson. The boy’s broad shoulders and long muscular legs glistened in the warm sunlight as he stood high on the rocky over-hang above her.

Without acknowledging it, both Jenna and the boy were awakening to their bodies as they grew and changed. Soon, thought Jenna, they would no longer be the carefree children who swam with abandon and ran like deer through the ancient forest. Jenna turned away from the boy, but secretly smiled at this sweet flirtation as the sunlight sparkled like diamonds on the rocks, the trees, and the water’s surface.

The boy, not unlike an Indian brave stalking his prey, suddenly appeared near Jenna, having silently slipped into the water. It was his indigo blue eyes that startled her. The depth of emotion that emanated from his eyes, she didn’t understand. The boy smiled knowingly at Jenna. He could read her thoughts, she knew.

“Listen, he whispered to Jenna as he placed his hand near to his ear. “The water is whispering – do you know what it is saying?”

Jenna leaned into the water to hear the voice of the brook. The brook murmured as it gently flowed over the rocks.  Puzzled, Jenna could only shrug her shoulders.

The boy leaned closer to Jenna—his face just inches from her up-turned nose. His indigo blue eyes, now glittering in the sunlight, looked into Jenna’s eyes, willing her to somehow absorb the mystical knowledge of the brook that he so easily understood.

“You must hear it for yourself” he replied gently, in a voice that was softly mesmerizing. Jenna felt spellbound by his presence and she opened her mouth to speak, but she could only shake her head.

Suddenly, a flock of Canadian Geese flew over their heads and broke the spell. Both of them she remembered, had looked up together to see the geese majestically crossing the azure blue of the endless sky. So close to them, she thought, that she could feel the air move around them. A single feather swirled downward to the water’s edge and the boy gently cupped it in his hands. He then placed the feather in her hand. She brought it to her lips to touch and smell the still warm and fragrant odor of wheatgrass, marsh, and meadow. The white quill was downy soft and still warm. She would always keep it.

When Jenna turned to thank the boy, he had already climbed back up to the rocky ledge and was staring at her.

“Wait”, she cried out. “Who are you?”

“Someday you will know, Jenna.” And then he was gone.

Jenna stood on the bridge over-looking the brook remembering those moments long ago. She was now twenty-four years old and her life had taken many twists and turns since the day that seemed a lifetime ago. It surprised her how constant the memory of the boy stayed with her. How many years, she thought, have I returned to this town, to stand on this bridge, wondering whatever happened to the boy.  Jenna took the single white quill feather from her pocket and brought it to her lips. It still held the scent of wheatgrass, marsh, and meadow.

Jenna suddenly became aware that someone was watching her. She then turned to see a tall, dark-haired young man. He was staring at her. His long slender legs moved with an effortless grace as he walked toward her. She was stunned. There was something about him, she thought. Her mind raced with speculation.

The young man came to stand in front of her. He leaned in, closer to Jenna—his face just inches away from her up-turned nose. His indigo blue eyes, now resplendent in the afternoon sunlight, looked into Jenna’s, willing her to remember. “The water is whispering,” he said with a grin. “Do you know what it is saying?”

Jenna’s eyes opened wide. She nodded to the tall, dark-haired young man with the indigo blue eyes and smiled. “We are like the brook–a constant thing, she told him. “Nothing is ever truly lost, if one seeks to remember.

“Yes,” he said, “that is the secret of the brook.” The young man took her hand in his and together they walked down memories road, into the future.

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DANGER WALKS HERE!

It happened in a small farming community in the northwestern part of Connecticut that also included a large forest preserve, a once glacial river, now a bubbling brook, a lake, and a spring-fed pond. The community’s roots began in 1680, as The Salmon Brook Settlement that was also home to Native Americans like the Tunix, the Massaco, and the Mohegan.

It was a perfect summer day. The morning was cool and the sky was a brilliant Periwinkle blue. The deep, dense forest was a monolith of wonder for elementary school age kids.  The ancient woods that the Salmon Brook flowed through provided the Native Americans with all kinds of fish, fowl, and river animals, like beavers.

Evidence of their inhabitation lingers still in the form of arrowheads, pathways, in meadows that were once crop producing fields, where they once grew tobacco, beans, squash, and corn, as well as middens of shells like clams, mussels and turtles were eagerly searched for in the forest.  There were plenty of bones to find too, mostly animal, but sometimes, human bones that would be exposed as they washed up on the rocky river banks.

On this beautiful summer morning, a small band of kids, having traversed deeply into the forest, smelled smoke and considered it to be a fisherman on the river or the nearby lake.  At first, nothing much was thought about it. The smoke seemed to be coming from some distance away.

Taken aback by what she was seeing, one of the older members of the group of five children, yelled out, “FIRE!”  All heads turned to the leader of the group, who stood mesmerized by the yellow-orange fingers of flame surrounding a giant oak tree, that appeared to touch the sky it was so tall. The forest fire was closing in around them, silently sneaking up on them, until it roared like a lion.  The fire then leapt among the tree tops, high into the sky, turning the blue sky into a purple twilight, billowing with fire.

Like deer, caught in the headlights of an on-coming car, they froze in fear.  Suddenly, they ran, following their leader to an old wagon wheel road where giant, thick oaks lined the road, that was little more, now, than a pathway.  They ran and out of the corner of their eyes the watched the fire explode into the giant oaks behind them. As they ran, animals of all kinds joined in their fierce desire to escape the flames that were now, 40, 50, 60, 100 feet high in the air, and animals ran alongside the five children. The leader was shocked to find a black bear keeping pace at her side and deer leaping everywhere. Wild Turkeys, Foxes, Porcupines, Skunks, Woodchucks, all, ran with the humans, side by side on the narrow path, until the path widened as they reached an open field. Ahead of them was Canton road and fire trucks with long hoses and a helicopter overhead. The parents of the children were kept back by officers and firemen.

The children emerged, blackened with smoke, wild-eyed with fear, and the animals took off in different directions, some crossing the road to the other side where safety could be found, unmindful of the crowd gathered on Canton Road. The children, now at the point of exhaustion, collapsed into their parent’s arms as the firefighters dosed them with cool, clear water.

This was a day the five children would never forget. I will always remember the black bear running by my side. I remember how we looked at each other, the black bear and I—with a look that was “will we get out of this alive?”  It was as if we saved each other and we were a team. It was amazing. I will always remember the look he gave me as he turned to run into the safety of the tall bushes and another part of the forest, he turned and stopped for a moment, like he was saying, thank you and nodded his head.

By K. D. Dowdall

***I wrote this sometime ago and I had not proofread it before publishing. I have now made grammatical changes. A mistake, hopefully, I will not make again.