Indian Boots

My father has been trying to "man me up" for quite a few years. After a trip to New Mexico, he came back with these thick leather boots as a gift. Here is how the interaction went:

Father: Casey, I went to New Mexico and all the guys on the Rez wear these boots. They're from a store like Farm and Fleet, except the New Mexico version.

Me: (completely unimpressed) Wow, thanks dad.

So my "Indian boots" as I had dubbed them, sat in my closet waiting for winter. The first snowfall came, I begrudgingly pulled them out of the closet. I slipped my foot into the left boot and found them to be surprising comfortable. For a month, I was happy that my father bought me these manly boots.

After about a month it all ends. My boots are seen on such hot celebs as Brittany Spears and Jennifer Aniston. My manly Ugg boots have become the number one fashion item for girls. Like a ship that somehow sinks and THEN bursts into flames, I've been caught utterly off-guard. Apparently the price of my boots shot up to $400 and now come in pastel pink.

Not too long after this paradigm shift, my father comes down to Madison for a meeting. As we walk down State Street, he notices the ubiquitous nature of the Ugg boots he bought for his son. The only problem is that they are affixed to the legs of not 'Sconnie men, but Coastie girls.

When I was in high school and I told my father I was quitting football to be in The Wiz (the hip '70s update of the Wizard of Oz whose film version featured Michael Jackson) it was over dinner. When I told my father that I had decided to become an ethical vegetarian, it was over dinner (chicken incidentally). It seemed only fitting that I tell my father the boots that were to impress an air of masculinity into my step had become the quintessential accessory for urbane young women. To make matters worse, these weren't Midwestern girls, but those Jewish American Princesses who weren't bright enough to get into Columbia and, by default, came to Wesconsin.

Word of my decisions to join the drama club over football and leafy greens over bloody flesh were met with looks of defeat. The Indian warrior in my father had yet again failed to instill the savage pride that is the hallmark of young Indian men.

But this conversation was different. After I told him that these boots were now "girl boots" he put down his forkful of prime rib and smiled.

I had prepared myself for anger, dismay, even accusations of homosexuality, but hadn't even entertained possible laughter.

For a few uneasy moments I just watched as he sat laughing in front of me, but not at me. My father is not one to add injury to insult, in all my years of below-average masculine output, he had not once derisively guffawed at my shortcomings.

He was laughing at himself. He had bought the boots. He had tried his best to make me manlier and even that failed. It wasn't him or me, it was Fate. Long ago, Fate had decided I would be flight not fight, left-field not right, Omega Male not Alpha.

Though it still is emasculating to think that even if I found a way to kill a lion with only cunning and an obsidian blade at my disposal, the press would probably lose the photo of me standing over the slain beast and print an older stock picture of me completing a gingerbread house at the Ten Percent Society's Winter Solstice Party.

Still, I don't really wear my Ugg boots until it gets completely unbearable in sneakers. As the Romans said, you can't deny Fate, but you can push it back a couple of months.

Sexual Behavior in the Contemporary Ho-Chunk Male

My first trip to UW-Madison was not for a campus visit or a football game. It was for a brown bag lunch featuring my father who is the director of my tribe's Department of Natural Resources.
I remember walking into the windowless meeting room and sitting down across from this Indian woman with grey hair, big glasses and lots of silver jewelry. I didn't know at the time, but I was standing in front of Ada Deer, the woman who ended the federal government's termination policy which would have effectively killed off American Indian sovereignty. No casinos, no reservations, no cheap cigarettes.
After telling her my name and age, she gave me a piece of advice: Marry an Indian woman. She hadn't even told me her name yet. This was more important.

There is an incredible amount of pressure for me to date, marry, and ultimately make babies with a Ho-Chunk woman. Although Ho-Chunk is preferred, any Indian woman.
I began with the story about Ada because she is notable personality you are most likely familiar with, but I have heard this mantra since puberty dropped my voice and other parts of my person.
"We are losing blood quantum." My uncle would say, referring to the dwindling percentage of Ho-Chunk ancestry our current members could claim. Quantum, as it is called, is important not so much culturally as it is legally. To be a federally recognized American Indian means you must have 1/4 Indian heritage. This is proven through birth records. Ostensibly, the Bush administration wants to change this number to 1/2 for no other reason than to lessen their workload.
To be recognized by my tribe is a bit trickier. Not only do you have to prove 1/4 Ho-Chunk heritage through birth records, but also provide a DNA test conclusively showing that mom and dad actually created the newborn Indian in question. The rigorous testing is to weed out imposters eager to cash in on casino profits. In my tribe, being Indian is rather profitable. As a student they pay for dorm rooms, books, and tuition.
The problem now is that our numbers are thinning. Personaly, I believe that in my lifetime we will drop the percentage to 1/8th. Every month the tribal newspaper prints the newest additions to the tribal roll. Its rare to see "full" under blood quantum these days. Even 1/2 is quite rare. Typically you can expect to see ridiculously small fractions that are just above 1/4 like 27/104. Sometimes I wonder how these assertions are mathematically possible with only two parents in the mix.
As a result of these thinning numbers we have serious pressure to "keep it in the tribe". When I was 12, I took this early warning seriously. I didn't know why. I hadn't even learned about the birds and bees yet. The reproductive process was still a foreign affair to me that made just as much sense as international tax code does to me now.
I mean, I have a white mother, but saw no problem with that at the time. A true testament of youthful ignorance. But this incident also reveals how early they indoctrinate this idea into a young person's head. I was more interested in exploring rivers and climbing trees than seeking potential mating partners.
Even as I grew up and began to fashion my own opinions, an undercurrent of that 12-year-old still remained. To quote one my tribe's employment procedures, I simply advocated "Ho-Chunk Preference". It's not discrimination. The policy states that if there are two qualified candidates of equal stature, the Ho-Chunk candidate can expect to get the job. But just like that hiring procedure, "Ho-Chunk Preference" can occasionally be used to justify an unqualified candidate.
That wasn't the case for my first love though. I was 14 and her name was Henu, which is the Ho-Chunk word for "first daughter". And that name wasn't just a front: she was full-blooded Ho-Chunk. I was totally smitten with her in a way that only a ninth-grader can be: She had breasts and wasn't too ghastly that I'd lose social capital, but not so pretty at to be out of my league.
When I had finally come around to the decision to ask her out, I asked for advice from the only guy I knew that experience with women: my father.

"Dad, I really like Henu. I think about her everyday."

Again, "henu" is the common Ho-Chunk name for first daughter.

"Well, Casey. You're going to have to be more descriptive. But let me tell you that I'm glad your not in love with a 'cunu'."

You can just guess what "cunu" is Ho-Chunk for.

"Henu Decorah, Dad. That's her name."

"Oh, Henu Decorah. Daughter of Sam. Whose brother is Weston...Who..."

This is the point of the conversation where I would usually drop out. Older Indian men have the tendency to figure out every last person that someone is related to. They usually come just short of mentioning Cain and Abel. By 15, when I told my father about my friends, I would usually just say they were white and that would be the end of conversation.

"Well, Casey. I have some news for you."

My dad had just taken me away from a daydream with me and Henu sharing a malted milk and holding hands; a gentle picture that innocent children believe to be love.

"Henu is related to you. Yup, second...no. First cousins. Yeah. She's family."

The malted milk spilled on the floor as I held hands with someone who could very well be my sister. My gentle picture of love had turned into a lesson about incest. I protested it. I had him check his facts, but it was true. Upon further reflection it makes sense. In 1842, after being forcefully removed from Wisconsin to Turkey River, Iowa. Our federally-alloted village numbered only 750 members. Even accounting for quite a few stragglers, that is not a large number. It is as if a college dormitory was all that was left of a civilization and they had to repopulate. You're going to end up making a few mistakes. The Ho-Chunk clan system, like many Indian clan systems, was put in place many moons ago to keep such an event from happening. Keep your hand in the right cookie jar and your kids won't end up being their own grandpa. But after 150 years, things get pretty strained and clan lines begin to blur.

Recently, I've actually thought of starting a Ho-Chunk personals service similar to Friendster or My Space. The Nation would host a personals site for tribal members to meet and hopefully continue the lineage. To sign up all you'd have to do is by authorized by the enrollment department. I think it's a great idea, but I'm totally addicted to networking websites.
For the time being. I am not actively seeking a Ho-Chunk girl. I know about every Indian in Madison and after 5 years I've exhausted those options as well. Instead, I've been actively seeking Jewish girls. I'm tired with my tribe. I figure I may as well try theirs. Plus, I'm certain that I wouldn't end up dating my first cousin.

Five Things I Dislike

1) Furries. Disgusting excuses for human beings. In hell they are only one ring above pedophiles. For those that are unaware of this sub-culture, they are folks that are into anthropomorphized animals. You know, like Bugs Bunny or Mickey Mouse. But don't let that lead to you to believe that this is innocent. Some "furs" believe that they have animal spirits stuck in human bodies. This notion seems to be co-opted from the American Indian animal-clan system, except bastardized by white guys who have problems talking to girls. If that hasn't turned you against them, you should know that furries enjoy dressing up in animal costumes and having group sex in "furpiles". Christ, I need to go wash my hands after typing that.

2) Dogmatic Madison Liberals. If I hear another white-ass Madison liberal tell me Gov. Jim Doyle is a Republican in disguise, I will seriously deck them. If you don't advocate the most radical stance possible, you suddenly become a neo-conservative. The Republicans have both the assembly and senate. It's a numbers game. If your squad has 3 people and the other squad has 16 you don't start a fight, you try and compromise. Do you know how fortunate we are to have Doyle? Remember Tommy Thompson? They won't be happy until Wisconsin becomes a socialist republic. Just because it the most far-left decision doesn't mean that its right.

3) Wisconsin Oneida. As a child, I always called them the "O-need-a" because they "O-needa" go back to New York. No good carpetbaggers. The Ho-Chunk were here when they showed up and we'll be here when they leave.

4) People who metaphorically show their hand. I recently read an article in the local student paper where the journalist readily admitted that he had no authority on the subject of his article. Yet, he still proceeded to espouse his advice on the subject. If you are an idiot, keep it to yourself. Not only is it personally in poor judgment for someone to admit they have no clue what they are talking about, but its condescending to the party who is told this information. Suddenly, you are too stupid to comprehend their ignorance.

5) The Amish. I don't actually hate the amish, but I'm safe from reprisal because they can't use the internet. Unless they are one of those "cheating amish". I'm talking about those Amish dicks that always ask you for a ride into town, but never pay for gas because they don't believe in it.