This week, we have joined the artist and organizers who have activated a nationwide wave of creative resistance, Fall of Freedom. Check out their site for events scheduled around the country and enjoy this PonyXpress special edition.

Making medicine permeates the Native culture in prison. Throughout the community the Indigenous life is practiced with attention to the spirit and to the generosity of the culture. Matt Reyes, sub-chief of the Lakota Oyate-ki Native Club writes:
”I was raised with the Native sides of my family; however, the family I was always with didn’t practice their OLD WAYS heritage. They only did what they knew. Now, I did to to a culture camp when I was around 5 or 6 years old and made a hand drum and participated in a sweat lodge ceremony. Later on, at age 12, I participate in learning a traditional song and drumming on the big drum at culture camp. At ages 17-22, I had participated in maybe four sweat lodge and pipe ceremonies. So, I had little heritage passed down to me from the OLD WAYS, while growing up before I coming to prison.” What does it mean to learn the old ways in prison? What adaptations are necessary? And how does a culture grow, evolve, change, thrive? | TDS

From Many Voices by Hugh Crow
Why does my will become weak?
In a world full of oily shadows,
I’d think the cold depths of survival would speak …
At least the curse of a broken mirror blows.

In a world full of oily shadows,
There’s a crime that crushes called kindness for blindness
At least release the curse a broken mirror blows,
So when bringing light we’d shine in kindness.

There’s a crime that crushes called kindness of blindess
I’d think the cold depths of survival would speak.
So when bringing light into shine in kindness.
Why does my will become weak?

Smoldering Ember Bark by Melissa Black
Walking over to the tree
as it smolders, I am still
shaking within my skin.
She begins smudging me
as I approach her.

Smoke and Embers or Was It Bark by Rebecca Adams
You have found good soil and have planted good seed and regrowth is beckoning your name. Keep reaching and seeking the light. Your Creator had to put you to the fire to purify you. Ridding you of all that no longer serves life, to give new life to you.

Beatty Trust (Circles) by Rarin Qualls
Discovering myself came in a time when my shattered spirit clung to any light available. As I teetered on the abyss of insanity (during this time of captivity) letting it become the end of me was not an option. Broken by man’s laws, sure. Still neither confinement nor this “whitewashed mentality” of punishment and greed could destroy this Indian Heart that resides deep within me.

An excerpt from Indigenous Times, Snake River Correctional Institution’s monthly newsletter:
When we are closer to our ways we are strong and a better Circle, tribe, and nation. We have lasted for centuries and remain, our ancestors fought and had to develop such strength and this is one of the gifts they passed down to us all, one is certain, we will endure. We have an obligation to honor our ancestors in their way. So, let’s get back to tribal and council-minded thinking, not institutional and colonial ways.

We end our special edition reprising Mother, the show we produced for the community supported radio station XRAY.fm in Portland. This 30-minute broadcast includes writing from Oregon State Penitentiary by Jimmy Kashi, Jeff Sanders, AbdurRashid Al’Wadud, Nolan James Briden, Lakota Oyate-ki drumming, and Jeff Witt. Music was composed and performed by Le’Var Howard. | TDS

This week, we have joined the artist and organizers who have activated a nationwide wave of creative resistance, Fall of Freedom. Check out their site for events scheduled around the country and enjoy this two-part PonyXpress edition.

To accompany work by some of our Indigenous writers, we have selected historical images from the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. We want to note the way the antiquated images cast a sepia-toned nostalgia of Native people in contrast to the living poetry of our writers. Stories of generation trauma and survival punctuate the narrative and speak to the importance listening to a chorus of voices as we document our history. | TDS

Generational Struggle by R. Miranda
I was born one of the fortunate ones; if that’s what you want to call a Native Mexican who is born north of that ‘imaginary’ line called the border. A line that divides our land in two and calls one half Mexico, and the other half the United States. This imaginary, yet physical, line seems to have also created a division in the culture of our people — or has it?

A Survivor by Nolan James Briden
Grandma Rosie awoke to the doctor telling her she’d be okay. Having previously lost her twins, Johnny and Joseph, she was too scared to ask about her baby. The doctor left and quickly returned asked her if she’d like to meet her son. She named my father Joseph. My grandma told my dad, “After how you was born, I knew you’d always be okay.” Words that he in turn told me.

Brotherhood Scars
Harley Boitz
I sit on the slide to the Medford playground. At age fifteen, I am freshly on the lam with my best friend at the time. We think we should have matching scars to solidify our newfound Brotherhood. Not playing attention, because we were also trying to touch the stars (we were so high), I flinch when I feel this slight burn on my shoulder. That’s when I realize, I’ve been branded with a lighter: a burned smiley face. It didn’t hurt at all, but instead brought an immense sense of joy and a feeling of loyalty. I was proud to accept the scar, even more happy to brand my newly found brother. With the scent of burning flesh tinting the air, we laugh and smile and plan our future together. We think we were invincible, and nothing will separate brothers. We ask each other what we would like to do, and I answer, take over the world. It seemed that way too. We had money, drugs, women, and we threw the best parties. Not even two weeks later, I was arrested, and I was never to see my brother again, or so I thought … Thirteen years later, in prison, I was playing basketball this dude asked me if I still have my scar on my shoulder. I stare at him — blank faced until I realized that I was staring at my long, lost brother and he showed me his car. I gave him a big hug, and we talked about our lives lost without each other.

All the Times by Kristie Jeffers
It seems I’ve screamed ten
thousand times,
trying hard to stop, and listen
for that sound of you.

I Remember by Jeff Witt
Fifty-seven percent of us, right out of the gate, were subject to developmental issues, impulse control, low self-esteem, and reduced educational achievements. JESUS, that sounds bleak. I started to doubt the data — no way that is right ... but then I remember the man I killed, and think, Should I be alive? If I had just died overseas he might be alive. My wife and kids wouldn’t have to go through this. Maybe I did die. Maybe one of those close calls was closer than I realized. Was it one of the IEDs or that sniper round that cracked past me, or the motorcycle wreck, or a bar fight? Am I alive? The lack of feeling sometimes would suggest otherwise.

Eulogy to My Grandfather by Hugh Crow
How can I apply a snow-white sheet of forgiveness to myself
when my acts of offense have stained me black as an oil well?
Too ashamed to admit it, son, how I abandoned you and ran,
scared of tears and fear rejection I couldn’t voice it man-to-man.

I Am A Survivor by Matt Reyes
For me, the best warrior that I can be is one who is there for family helping them repair themselves from the horrific and painful harms have been imposed upon them through generational trauma. I always thought that “protecting” my family was using physical violence. This result is I am serving a life sentence on those beliefs alone. This did not protect my family; it only protected MY pride.

My Shrine
Nathan Koyote Cutfinger
A tree for growth and deep roots
to represent my family ties and how I’ve grown
every branch to explain the directions
I’ve gone, even tho’ I’ve gone towards every path,
I’ve grown to rise above
my last. My days were like leaves
I’ve shed with seasons
To only end tall and strong.

And finally a film recommendation:
Sugarcane “the debut feature documentary from Julian Brave NoiseCat and Emily Kassie, is an epic cinematic portrait of a community during a moment of international reckoning. In 2021, evidence of unmarked graves was discovered on the grounds of an Indian residential school run by the Catholic Church in Canada, sparking a national outcry and setting off searches across North America. After years of silence, the forced separation, assimilation and abuse many children experienced at these segregated boarding schools is coming to light. Set amidst a groundbreaking investigation, Sugarcane illuminates the heartbreak and beauty of a community breaking cycles of intergenerational trauma and finding the strength to survive.”

Of the many sentences that swirled within him,
I hope words like regret were replaced with redemption
for his lack was no misfortune.
He cherished giving to children to fix their cleft palates,
give half his money while homeless to keep his heart and balance,
and tithe through deep need with the joyful countenance
for his trust in the Lord was full of praise and reliance.
He lived and breathed with an all-or-nothing attitude,
a cause of trauma and pain that tore at his virtue,
strained relations. Bipolar with depression he tried to dislodge that anchor,
said, I'm happy — no I'm not — why must I fight this anger?
I'm sorry — and truly mean it — this emotion never changes.
Humbled by your forgiveness, my own is a foreign language.
I've journeyed a Trail of Tears, held on to drugs and syringes,
had to battle for my sanity till I broke the lock and hinges.
Finally open minded — my goodness, look at the footage,
my family is full of love, their hearts be full of courage.
I ask again: How can I apply a snow white sheet of forgiveness to myself
when my acts of offense have stained me black as an oil well?
Too ashamed to admit it, son, how I abandoned you and ran,
scared of tears and fear rejection I couldn't voice it man-to-man.
Dear daughters, full of grace, thank you for love and gentle hugs,
I know you've hurt tremendously from youth as little shrubs,
had to witness my affliction, great self-sabotage.
Oh how I have weathered storms and prayed for lasting peace,
enjoyed the giggles of great grandkids and tucked them into their sheets.
Saw so many shine beneath the sun as I studied all in stride,
their glances round at nature knowing curious and alive.
Grant pictures of all your faces I’ll treasure on my way through,
to heaven's gate still praising God so glad I was close to you. | HC

LISTEN TO HUGH DELIVER THE EULOGY

HUGH CROW II IS FROM BEND, OREGON. HE IS OF NATIVE AND DUTCH ANCESTORY. HE HAS BEEN WRITING SINCE HIS YOUTH. IN OREGON YOUTH AUTHORITY AT AGE 14, HE RELIED HEAVILY ON WRITING AS AN OUTLET.

AUTHOR NOTE: My father was born outside of what was referred to as the continental United States and struggled to raise his “first generation” family in an Anglicized land. The challenge was how to indoctrinate his Native-Mexican children into the “white society mentality” or middle-class America. Yet, somehow preserve the rich, full culture, heritage and traditions that ran through his veins. What follows are two pieces that pay homage to his plight.

PAPA TRIED
Papa tried hard.
In a lot of ways
he succeeded.
In others
he knew what was inevitable.

At times I could see the battle scars,
Etched sharply,
Yet somehow symmetrically arranged
about his face
to create a certain harmony
that belied his ambivalence
from the daily wars he fought within himself
to bring up la familia in an Anglicized society.

He wanted more than the khakis, chinos, bandanas,
and Pendleton shirts that life in los barrios offered his hijas

Yet,
In order to afford the Sears and K-Mart clothes
the neighborhoods of middle-class America offered,
he was forced to put la Familia to work in the fields
on weekends and during summer break.

We learned the value of the dollar at an early age.
And again, as if by magic,
Papa succeeded
for we were not corrupted by the value
placed upon the dollar.

Yet,
It was inevitable,
the children laughing and playing in the fields,
bonded by childhood camaraderie of culture
shared lifestyles
sowed the first seeds of wonderment about
what life in los Barrios was like.

I wasn’t much different than today’s youth
at least not in the sense that we all inherit
our own generation’s woes left behind by the
tradition of our ancestors and elders
who precede us.

Thus,
I inherited my father’s ambivalence, and
his daily wars.

ONE OF THE FORTUNATE ONES
I was born one of the fortunate ones; if that’s what you want to call a Native Mexican who is born north of that ‘imaginary’ line called the border. A line that divides our land in two and calls one half Mexico, and the other half the United States. This imaginary, yet physical, line seems to have also created a division in the culture of our people — or has it?

Yes, I’m one of the fortunate ones. I went to some of the better schools that this side of our land has to offer. As a child, I had the opportunity to learn a lot. I learned what prejudice is, and how this communicable disease affects the minds and hearts of those who, unfortunately, contract it. I learned what racism is, and how this deadly virus is responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths. Yes, racism’s hands are well bloodstained. I also learned a wide vocabulary of words, words that don’t even appear in the dictionary! Words like beaner, chili-chocker, taco-bender, wet-back, spic, and let’s not forget hey esse … just to mention a few. Yes, I learned a lot in my younger years.

Now that I’m older, I’m still learning a lot of those same childhood lessons, only this time I’m being taught by my (own) people. I’m learning the same people my father spoke so highly of, and I always admired so much, are infected with that disease called prejudice.

Some of my fondest memories are those of my father coming into my room late at night to tell me stories about my people, as he put it. A people rich in culture and pride. Others are of the trips we would take to Arizona, Mexico, and other parts of the land to watch Los Yaquis dance, and other celebrations … such precious times. He would tell me, “Mi ‘jo, these people are your blood. As rugged as they look, they’re very beautiful people … don’t ever forget who you are or where you come from.” And, as we were picking tomatoes in San Jose, or oranges in Fresno, he would say, “Look around Mi ‘jo, you see all these people, they are your people, too. They are your heritage, your blood … it’s something to be proud of. They are hard workers. They have strong family beliefs, and are not afraid to put in a honest day’s work (for an honest day’s pay?) Always remember who you are and where your blood comes from. Be proud of your heritage.” | RM

R. MIRANDA WAS BORN IN SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA. HE IS NATIVE AMERICAN (MAYAN, APACHE, YAQUI) AND SPANISH/ROMANIAN. HIS WRITING IS A FORM OF POSITIVE FOCUS AND HEALING AND EXPRESSION.

Life is a sacred ceremony, the wisdom keepers taught us, the future is with us here and today, in the now and here. It’s coming up, in fact, right behind us. Over and over, we were told: turn around and look, there they are, the seventh generation — they’re coming up right behind you. They will soon be walking this same path, we must ensure there is a path to walk, and it is better than the one left for us.

STEVE WALL & HARVEY ARDEN, Wisdom keepers

There is a fire inside of me that aspires to be and do more. Not for my own personal gain — maybe partially for personal growth, but never am I driven by some materialistic motivation. This energy has a life of its own, like an undying need to preserve, help, and serve my people in a meaningful and positive way. I’m finding I love to do this service work. My fulfillment in this life of incarceration has come while being lonely and separated from family, home and community. Even though I view it as my duty and responsibility as an aware person, there are many who see keeping this good medicine flowing between all that are living as hard work.

Men like me covet loyalty, honor, culture, and respect for life. It’s embedded into all we are which creates a paradigm between valuing life in ways most people do not always understand and walking that invisible line of death. I’m the last of a dying breed built to carry this medicine that the faint of heart find too much to bear. I understand this may sound arrogant, self-assured, and even unreal. When the truth is, I grew up shy, self-conscious, and sad. Today, I’m just confident in who I am, and stand for a great many things that are bigger than myself. This makes it easier for others to confuse my intelligence as arrogance. It’s simply a trigger for other’s insecurities.

Discovering myself came in a time when my shattered spirit clung to any light available. As I teetered on the abyss of insanity (during this time of captivity) letting it become the end of me was not an option. Broken by man’s laws, sure. Still neither confinement nor this “whitewashed mentality” of punishment and greed could destroy this Indian Heart that resides deep within me.

Many Elders along this journey have contributed to my awareness. I’m the image of what they’ve left behind, mixed with everything I’ve experienced along my own walk in life.

Once I picked up this medicine it gave me a mental position from which I cannot ignore or regress from ever. It has been said, “If this way of life was easy everyone would be doing it.” This has been proven time and again amongst the identity-searching explorers of these great un-united states of Amerikkka. This same mentality is also true from pimpin’ to polygamy. Any intriguing, taboo lifestyle will attract culture vultures who will pick at the bones of our culture until it’s left a shell of what it once was. Anyone who tries to “practice” this Indigenous way of life will end up in extreme conflict when they abandon these gifts of knowledge given to them from the universe itself. The repercussions of turning against these gifts of wisdom are certain. The form it takes is the mystery. It is not in me to turn from this responsibility, or my people.

My focus has been on unity, and our children for as long as I can remember. Amerikkka has built its system backwards. From the top down, forgetting about the poor, and the children. The breaking up of homes, and mental torture don’t need to be values we covet as a nation.

Unfortunately, we have this throw-away idea of using people instead of caring about them. The next seven generations, and our mother Earth can get lost in this instant gratification celebration. The seven generations ahead of us, and behind us can’t be forgotten or we run the risk of forgetting where we came from. And when you forget “where” you come from, you are for sure to forget who you are.

In developing this deep emotional and spiritual connection that has come from “searching my soul,” it has come to me how moving forward (our progression as a nation) is going to be through those who came before us. To know our past is to know our future.

I am a believer of spiritual warriors, medicine men, energy exchange between all that is living, and the reciprocation of what we do will affect everything. The old ways have not died! “The ways” have just had a makeover. Masked by distractions in a new age of life. This new native lifestyle can be worrisome, but I’m sure it has always seemed like the youth are lost. But knowing our history tells us otherwise. What our ancestors went through, no one would have expected for us to still be here today. We are still strong in our traditions and doing our part to sustain the harmony which guides our future generations.

Real change is when we come together collectively to spread our wings and fly. Only together are we whole. Being less connected to the Earth, and our Creator has caused us to rely on our “eyes” to see “the way” — to have something tangible to show us the way. I encourage ALL blessed enough with eyes to read this, to SEE yourself … if it took 600 years to adapt to things like milk and alcohol, how in that same period did we lose something so powerful that has been encoded in our DNA since time unknown? Change and evolution are a positive part of life. Clarity precedes suffering. Suffering precedes change. Good/bad balance. It’s all circles.

The ones holding this medicine, the prophets, the medicine men, the chiefs, and the great men who are hard to find, they are right here walking with us today. Regardless of what mainstream society, the media, or the lost and confused may want us to believe. Truth is these great men can be right in front of you. They are in your town, community, and even in these iron houses kept outta sight.

Have hope that even if you don’t understand the direction these young people are going, we still have a vision; we still have strong individuals carrying this medicine in a good way. Everything is a circle and we happen to be standing in the middle of it.

The spirit in our “ways” lives as strong as ever inside us all. Even in the youth who may not have proven themselves — yet.

Some are born leaders; others are forged leaders made of hardship and experience that propels them into leadership. All of us are unique in what we bring to the circle.

It is our time to carry this medicine our ancestors protected, died for, did time for, were tortured for, walked barefoot for, and carried their own trauma and pride for. I know giving love from hardened hearts is a difficult thing to do when you’ve never had a speck of hope in your life. Still, I say, respect life, and love to the best of your ability within your current being. There is no need to go outside of oneself when what we seek is already within us. | RQ

RARIN “GREY FOX” QUALLS CONTRIBUTED TO PRISONS HAVE A LONG MEMORY, THE 2022 ANTHOLOGY OF WRITING BY MEN SERVING TIME AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY. HE IS A MEMBER OF THE LAKOTA OYATE-KI CLUB AT OSP.

I snap to, disoriented. Without opening my eyes for fear of what I might see, I gaspingly cough for oxygen whilst choking on smoke and ashes. Smelling sulfuric smoke, I open my eyes. Oh no! What have I done? Boy, I really did it this time, I think. I’m in a dark so full of nothingness, I fear this is the end. But no. As I clear my vision by blinking my eyes — you know after your eyes adjust to the dark — I see a faint glowing of a distant light. Do I go to the light or is it more fire to burn the rest of who I am? My inner voice says, Go to the light. So I do. My coldness, you know, the chill to the bone cold kind of feeling starts to slowly subside and is warmed inch by inch from fingertips and toes and moving out through my limbs. As I get closer to the light, I find out why it’s an ember in the center of a smoldering pile. I reach it. There is an innate need to touch it. So, I do. Suddenly, I feel energy, a surging powerful energy that whispers, “You have found good soil and have planted good seed and regrowth is beckoning your name. Keep reaching and seeking the light. Your Creator had to put you to the fire to purify you. Ridding you of all that no longer serves life, to give new life to you.”

I felt first, just a few drops and then a whole bunch of purifying raindrops, drenching and quenching this thirsting in my soul. Ring after ring, I stretch my limbs high up to the sky, to the everlasting light. As new bark replaces stone brick walls, that were cold as steel. Light bark is hard on the outside but flexible enough to expand with me as I grow. Not uniting, but lovingly protecting my new life from outside elements and inhabitants who need me as much as I need them. Though the winds howl, and rains pour, I have beauty from the ashes, a spark from the ember that burns and lives inside of me. Forevermore. | RA

REBECCA ADAMS RELEASED THIS YEAR AND HAS RETURNED HOME.

The lightning bolt hits the bark of
my grandmother’s tree.

The strong electrical power
shakes me to the bone.

My sight becomes distorted with a brief,
bright flash. It returns revised.

Walking over to the tree
as it smolders, I am still
shaking within my skin.

She begins smudging me
as I approach her.

With my basket by my side
I begin to collect the
warm black ember bark’s coal.

Raising my arms to the sky,
giving thanks for this healing.
Powerful medicine.

The sacred element have connected
and provided for me enough
to share.

I chew on a warm bite, just a
little bit.

Feeling thankful that my basket is
now full. | MB

MELISSA BLACK IS A MEMBER OF THE COFFEE CREEK CORRECTIONAL FACILITY HECATE’S LANTERN WRITING GROUP.

The night was light with the iridescent flakes of snow. The earth stood out in the forefront of the Rocky Mountains. Her breathing was labored as she swept through the thick snow. On her way across the Res she could feel the stars of life as she exhaled into the wintery night sky. Her clothes were made in the fashion of her era. Her skin was earth's dark red that cut in the sharp features of her Pukini blood. The 1950s were tough as she walked into the blizzard’s weather. Her feet touched the same ground that her mother, father, grandmothers-grandfathers did, since Napi first made humans. This cold season found a rose unable to make her destination. She fell into a snowdrift and lost consciousness. Her belly was big with the life it held.

Two winos found my grandma and carried her to the hospital on our reservation in Browning, Montana. The story describes how my Grandma Rosie awoke to the doctor telling her she'd be okay. Having previously lost her twins, Johnny and Joseph, she was too scared to ask about her baby. The doctor left and quickly returned asked her if she'd like to meet her son. She named my father Joseph. My grandma told my dad, "After how you was born, I knew you'd always be okay." Words that he in turn told me. I think of those two relatives that found my grandma, and even in their state of drinking, they still had the compassion, the love to carry their relative to the hospital — not just walk by her. A truth that human beings can still be spiritual beings, no matter what.

The life expectancy for Indian men of my dad's generation was around the age of thirty — tops. Alcohol, drugs, jail-prison, and deaths bed were the most likely outcomes. Disconnected from ancestral ways, an Indian man living in a white world was forced to assimilate in the world that perpetuated assimilation. It was outlawed to practice tribal customs and to live as the first ones did. "We were taught to be anything but Indian. When I was a little boy, my sister Janice used to braid my hair in the way the old Blackfeet wore it." My dad’s words resonate in me as I think of those times, and the heartache from losing so much of one’s identity. My generation was so far removed from experiencing those times, and yet, the effects still ripple out. It makes me think of the barriers we face, some more than others, some less, and how the connection to the earth, spirit, and creator are still alive. Despite all the stimulations of the world, we've survived to tell our stories and connect to those ancient ideas.

"We been trying to get hold of you. I had a heart attack last week. They put 2 valves in my heart." My dad's words still echo around my head, spilling out to fill my cell, I get lost in thought. You see, my dad is my best friend, my hero in so many ways. And there's a lot to unpack. In that moment his words struck my conscious, all those bags emptied out and the one thing that centered my world was that I was hearing his voice. One of the hardest lessons I've learned over these years of incarceration is the impact of losing a loved one most dear. All the could of’s, would of's, and should of's that are left in the between. Not really here, nor there, just hovering around unsettled. Trying to bridge the gap of incarceration can seem daunting at times. And the fundamental part of family that has held my family together through so much of life is love. Love is something that not even mile-high-into-the-sky cement can come between. I think of my aunties, my uncles, and how they too have fought the oppressors and survived.

As I have struggled to put a tie on this writing piece, I find myself having reoccurring waves of grief. It's said that grief is not linear, and I find that to be true for me. I grieve what has happened and what has not happened. I grieve the heartache that echoes through the generations of my family. I grieve the horrible mistakes that I have made and now keep me from my loved ones out there in the world. Grievous mistakes that knot me to this captivity. I grieve and I am still alive.   | NJB

NOLAN JAMES BRIDEN WAS RAISED IN PORTLAND, OREGON. HIS ROOTS BLOOM FROM RICH CULTURES,  BLACKFEET AND IRISH.  HE WRITES: “I’M JUST GETTING TO A POINT IN THE EXPLORATION OF WRITING TO BE ABLE TO SAY IT IS A RELATIONSHIP THAT I UNDERSTAND; THEN, I READ A DIFFERENT STYLE, FORM, OR WAY OF WRITING AND MY JOURNEY RESTARTS TO UNDERSTAND.” NOLAN IS A MEMBER OF THE LAKOTA OYATE-KI CULTURE CLUB AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY AND HE IS A FOUNDING MEMBER OF THE GROUND BENEATH US WRITING GROUP.

I have recently survived an experience that opened my mind immensely to a different way of thinking. I do not have to take another person’s life today. My family has always been my number one priority. I grew up so closely with my family to where, no matter what, we were always there for each other — even through dysfunction. As far as I can remember, it has always felt natural to go above and beyond for my family. Even if that meant I "had" to take another person’s life. I have always thought that's what a warrior does. Now I have another option, thanks to some good people that I chose to open to and furthermore, I chose to be open to their feedback.

For me, the best warrior that I can be is one who is there for family helping them repair themselves from the horrific and painful harms have been imposed upon them through generational trauma. I always thought that "protecting" my family was using physical violence. This result is I am serving a life sentence on those beliefs alone. This did not protect my family; it only protected MY pride.

I thought I only had two options, to "protect" my family or be a "coward." I can now see another option. I don't have to take another person’s life. If I was out in the streets and my sister had come to me and told me that she had been harmed (whether it be beat up, kidnapped or let’s say even raped) I have the option to say, “OK, Sis stay here I'll be back, I will go take care of this.” If I go and take someone’s life, or get my life taken by death or prison, my sister is now left alone. Now, she must repair herself without me. She was already harmed before she came to me, so I’m not protecting her by harming another. Avenging her was supposed to make me feel better. This was my way of thinking before I realized something more about myself. That, if truth be told, revenge would not make me feel worse because by coming to prison, I would not be living to my full potential to care for family.

I never imagined if she was hurt, I should stay with her and help her become more resilient and use NO violence at all. Now take this further, and I learn that my sister’s life was taken. I could go and avenge my family and take the life that took my sisters. However, after much thinking, I am already in prison because I took a man’s life that I "thought" was going to take my aunt’s life and come to find out he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Therefore, I cannot be there for my family the way I want to, so why would I do it again?! Instead, I'd rather just be there to help pick up the pieces. My mother, nieces, nephews, sisters, grandma, and many more of the people whose lives she touched are still alive. They still need help to repair. I would rather be a warrior who emotionally supports my family in person, than the warrior I am still learning to be who lives inside this penitentiary.

-Aho Nanook-ga sa-amoks-

MATT REYES IS THE CHIEF OF THE LAKOTA OYATE-KI CLUB AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY, AND A MEMBER OF THE PONYXPRESS EDITORIAL BOARD. MATT SERVES HIS COMMUNITY IN ORDER TO MAKE LIFE BETTER FOR HIS PEOPLE.

It seems I’ve screamed ten

thousand times,

trying hard to stop, and listen

for that sound of you.

A message to my heart

for me to stop and rest.

But me, I thought I was the best.

There was nothing you could do.

My soul was sold, no parting.

My best friend and I were one.

Traveling the sights of the world,

exploring — on new adventures,

not a care in the world.

No time left for family

feelings, and emotions hung to dry.

All the times she offered help,

stood by me, scared I’d die.

Crushing her heart into pieces,

leaving her restless with no sleep,

I have hurt her, caused pain.

All the times, I didn’t care

I was destroying all of me:

all I could be,

all of who I wanted to be.

All the times, I refused to leave,

staying hooked on my drug.

I’ve broken free today.

All those times are dead and gone.

I am a new me, Mom,

and I am free to be me! | KJ

KRISTIE JEFFERS IS A GRAND RONDE TRIBAL MEMBER AND A MOM OF THREE AND THE DAUGHTER OF JILL BRANDON.

A counselor once asked me, “What are your earliest memories?” After a moment of thought, I responded, “Being alone.” She stared back through sad, glossy eyes.

As a child, I didn’t realize what amenities I had, or what opportunities existed outside my tiny world. I do not recall thinking how poor we were, or how bad we had it. When I was alone, my focus was on my next meal — often going without.

I remember walking to the outhouse late at night, unaware that most folks have electricity and indoor plumbing. Our quaint log cabin, pressed against a sea of evergreens, belonged to the most recent of my mother’s boyfriends.

I would learn years later that my father never knew I existed. He was serving life in prison; somehow making it more likely I’d be incarcerated at some point. A proverb about apples falling from a tree comes to mind.

I remember coming home to an empty house, my old dog eager to see human life.

I remember Bush, Sr. “D.A.R.E.ing” me to stay drug-free, and an old country proverb, “He who splits his own wood warms himself twice,” echoing in my head as I split kindling or carried wood for the evening fire.

I remember steam rolling off my hand-me-down clothes, damp after the long walk home from the bus stop in the rain.

I remember warming my pitch- and dirt-stained hands near the fireplace.

I remember the smell of woodsmoke and wet dog filling the small living room.

I remember putting another log on the fire, because if the fire died the water pipes would freeze.

I remember burying the kittens that didn’t make it through the night when my mom was out of town with “friends” and it was my responsibility to keep the house warm and look after the pets.

I remember the neighbor molesting the child that was alone ...

I read once that “adults in poverty are three times more likely to be arrested and fifteen times more likely to be charged with a felony.”

I remember a father who didn’t exist and a mother arguing with the police.

I remember sitting in the back of a cop car after a fight at school.

I remember doing homework on a car dashboard after school in front of a local bar. I remember being torn from sleep as the engine came to life at one in the morning and seeing my mother’s drunken eyes in the dashboard lights.

I remember the sweet bite of Crown Royal as she spoke: “OK, we’re headed home.”

I remember trying to go back to sleep because I didn’t want to witness the accident that finally “took us home.”

I once read an article that said: “A boy in the bottom 10 percent of the income distribution is 20 times more likely to end up in prison by his thirties than a boy in the top 10 percent.”

Two months after my thirty-first birthday, I was arrested and charged with murder.

Only after I fell victim to my own ignorance and proved the statistics true did I grasp what a history of child abuse, neglect, and trauma can do when left untreated. Couple this history with military training and combat overseas, and you get a recipe for disaster — just like mom used to make.

Turns out I’m not alone: Two in five inmates have a mental health diagnosis and there are about 2.2 million inmates across the US (Yeah, not alone anymore ... )

Growing up, I never thought that having only one parent would make me twice as likely to come to prison. I recall being fifteen, sleeping next to my hunting rifle in case my mom’s drunk, abusive boyfriend made good on his threats.

“I MUST SHOOT HIM BEFORE HE SHOOTS ME! I WILL!” echoes through the squad bay as a hundred Marine Corps recruits recite the rifleman’s creed before lights-out. I lie in my bunk and think to myself, “How many men in that squad bay, or this cellblock, grew up in poverty?”  Turns out, over half.

Fifty-seven percent of us, right out of the gate, were subject to developmental issues, impulse control, low self-esteem, and reduced educational achievements. JESUS, that sounds bleak. I started to doubt the data — no way that is right ... but then I remember the man I killed, and think, Should I be alive? If I had just died overseas he might be alive. My wife and kids wouldn’t have to go through this. Maybe I did die. Maybe one of those close calls was closer than I realized. Was it one of the IEDs or that sniper round that cracked past me, or the motorcycle wreck, or a bar fight? Am I alive? The lack of feeling sometimes would suggest otherwise.

It is a cold winter day. A young woman is driving to visit her husband in prison. A tiny voice of six asks, “Aunt Sissy?”

“Yes,” the woman responds.

“Is Uncle Jeff in prison for hurting someone?” the tiny voice asks.

The woman pauses to gather her thoughts before responding to her niece. “Yes,” she answers. The word feels heavy across her lips.

The little girl pauses a moment, as if in deep thought, before asking, “If someone hurt me, would he hurt them back?”

“Yes, he would.”  They find a strange comfort in that hard truth. The girl stares out the window at a ray of sun piercing the clouds and a smile spreads across her face. “OK.”  |  JW

JEFF WITT GREW UP IN A SMALL OREGON LOGGING TOWN AND SERVED IN THE US MARINES. HE HALF OGLALA AND SICANGU SIOUX AND A MEMBER OF THE LAKOTA OYATE-KI CULTURE CLUB. JEFF STARTED WRITING TO EXPAND HIS KNOWLEDGE AND EXPRESS HIMSELF.