Leonard Peltier & The Gulf Coast Warriors

You know Leonard Peltier’s story is kind of similar to the oil struggle along the Gulf Coast. I am member of a few facebook communities that consist mostly of Gulf Coast residents who report and share information regarding BP and the oil spill. Some of these individuals, whom I consider leaders of the struggle, are very outspoken about how they feel regarding the mess that BP has left us with. Some are even willing to give up their freedom, in defense of their land and their families. With this in mind, I would like to share with you Leonard’s story.

In 1973 murder ran rapid on Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, in South Dakota. It was the “Corporations,” like the strip miners after uranium reserves, who divided the people on the reservation with the promise of money and jobs. Kind of like the way the oil and gas companies took advantage of the three poorest states in the South (Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama). One of these corporations called, The Tennessee Valley Authority, was government owned. Considering our government has never honored a treaty made with Native American’s, it’s kind of insulting when the FBI starts showing up on the reservation unannounced, whenever the hell they pleased. And they weren’t there to help the Indians.

Sixty people were murdered violently on this small reservation within three years. On one occasion, the FBI coroner concluded that two Native victims had committed suicide by stabbing their selves in the face repeatedly. “Hmmmm.. . . . I always said, if I was going to commit suicide, it’s gonna be a knife to the face . . . repeatedly” Yeah right! Give me a break.

So the Indians, who own the reservation (the land), and who are to be considered a sovereign nation, decide to ask the American Indian Movement (AIM) for some protection. We’re talking about protecting the women and children, and the elderly. So a young, 29 year old, Leonard Peltier, an Ojibwa French Sioux Indian, volunteered to sit with these families, in their homes, and protect them. He’s not like standing at the entrance of the res, waiving a gun and waiting to blow away people who approach the boundary line. He’s no different than those of us who wish to protect our families and our land from the oil companies.

So one sunny day, Leonard’s out on this ranch, on the res, and he’s kicking it in a tent, when he hears gunshots. No one knows who started shooting first, or why the shooting began. But two FBI agents were killed. This pissed the FBI off. And the real kick in the ass was the fact that a whole gang of them Indians got away. Including Leonard Peltier.

From that point on, it’s been proven that the FBI fabricated evidence, hid evidence, and intimidated witnesses, without any regard to Mr. Peltier’s rights as a U.S. citizen. Even admitting that they (the FBI) don’t know who killed their agents. Leonard Peltier has been a prisoner of the United States for over thirty-five years now. Even though historically he’s been a model prisoner, he’s been denied parole twice.

www.whoisleonardpeltier.info
“Silence they say, is the voice of complicity. But silence is impossible. Silence screams. Silence is a message, just as doing nothing is an act. Let who you are ring out and resonate in every word & every deed. Yes, become who you are. There’s no sidestepping your own being or your own responsibility. What you do is who you are. You are your own comeuppance. You become your own message. You are the message." - Leonard Peltier

And the reason I share this story with you today is because this man is just like one of us. One facebook group I belong to is in part called the Gulf Coast Warriors. Leonard is a warrior too; a man of honor and truth. His fight is the same as our fight - what landed him in prison is the same corporate greed protected by the same corrupt government that we are fighting today. Only the names have changed.  Because there is approximately two thousand of usook groups that I am posting this blog to, I’m asking you to spread the word and join the existing worldwide support to help Leonard Peltier break free of that prison. Please visit:

Pensacola Beach, A.B. (After BP)

The beach is like a living being. Some parts are more favored than others. Over the years I’ve drifted from one spot to another along the eastern part of Pensacola Beach. East of Portofino Towers that is. I prefer the natural beauty over the family/tourist oriented areas. Before Ivan, it was beach number nine; the Gay and Lesbian beach along the National Seashores. There were no porta-pots to pee in. So we use to open the car door, and another person would hold a towel across the open area of the door, so you could take a squat, without anyone seeing you drop your shorts. That’s when I discovered that most people peed in the water. Even the dudes. I never understood that. Why pee all over yourself and pollute this gorgeous water we were all playing in? Then again, the parking lot began to smell like urine it baked in the hot sun.

Then Hurricane Ivan came and wiped the road out to Navarre. Our new little home on the beach became the double parking lot area that actually had a bathroom and shower area, as well as life guard station. It was the last parking lot, before the road turned to sand. We dug gigantic holes in the sand, while looking for shells. We hit the mother load that year. Eventually we started pulling into the smaller of the two parking lots, and taking either of the two walk out that lead out onto the beach. What’s known as walk-out number thirty today is the beach that Celia and I were married on. I look back on those photos now and think, what a gorgeous afternoon. Most certainly, we were standing before God, barefoot on sacred ground. The sand was so white. I wonder if I’ll ever see it that pure again?

The last couple of years, before the BP Oil Spill, we found ourselves worshiping heaven on, what’s know today as, walk-out number 27. All along eastern area of the Pensacola beach, I have left little gifts and mementoes to honor this endless wonderment of creation. Sometime at the end of February, or the first of March 2010, we stepped out onto the beach, and something didn’t feel right. I was so afraid they had done something to the water. Celia kept telling me, no it’s just the way it looks today. Which was a logical conclusion, if you’re a person who relies only on your sight. The water was rough, so it wasn’t unusual for the surf to look dark, like reservoir water. When we left that afternoon, I remember thinking, I hope she’s right. But I could not dismiss the sadness that tore at my gut.

So, I took the feathers that I collected from the beach, and added them to a piece of palm that I had decorated and burned symbols to. And on Palm Sunday, I took it to the beach and said my prayers. I asked that the beach be protected from harm, as well as the people who visit here. Thinking along the lines of a possible hurricane, not knowing at the time that I was praying for protection against the biggest oil spill in American history.

Even now when I think back on my little piece of heaven splattered black like a slow creeping cancer, my tears I can not hide. “Yes, it could have been worse.” This is what we say down here, as if the words were a mandated prescription that cures. Still, another summer will come to pass, and again I will find myself disenchanted at the poison that lurks in the beauty that lays before me. Another stolen season of fresh shrimp and oysters sizzling on the grill, with interludes of fresh salted kisses from the Gulf, as the white caps softly brush upon my face. I miss rolling in the waves like a child being tickled. And like a mother caring for her child there were times when she healed me. Now I pray that she heals. And some day she will.

But right now, the Gulf is still being raped. There are over 3, 858 gas and oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico alone. You drive along the Mississippi and Louisiana coast lines, and it looks like a third world country.  Shipyards and pollution scattered all up and down their shores, like they have no pride. These are the poorest states in America, and the oil cartel uses this to their advantage. And every American should be concerned, because this our land. It belongs to us. All of us. I’m not writing this blog for me; I’ll be 48 years old. I’m writing for you and your children, and the generations to come. Contact Congress.  Even if it’s a representative of a state other than your own. Let them know your aware of what’s going on down here, and you don’t like it. We have to get these oil companies out of the Gulf! It’s not impossible. I don’t buy it for a minute.