This Is My Rifle: The Death of My Hero, Russell Means Posted by Jason James on 10/24/12 | Filed under This Is My Rifle, Opinion, Politics

Growing up wasn't easy for me. I don't know exactly where or when life became difficult but I can still vividly recall when I realized that I was different.

Being raised by a single mother making barely above minimum wage in a predominantly upper middle class neighborhood had it's challenges, but for the most part I shared childhood experiences similar to those of my peers. Aside from my father having left my home when I was 4 years old, due to a crippling addiction to drugs and alcohol, and existing on a steady diet of fried potatoes and hot dogs boiled in sauerkraut, my mother made sure that my brother and I never missed out on the small things that create those warm memories we all have when we look back on our early years. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy were all regular visitors in my household and on birthdays we were spoiled beyond a logical degree. In order to provide us with the toys we demanded on our wish lists my mother would often sew clothing late into the night, doing alterations for friends and people in the neighborhood, just to make a few extra dollars to add to her minuscule paycheck so that we wouldn't go without. And at times when she couldn't afford our demands my grandmother would step in and buy us that Nintendo console my brother and I absolutely had to have.

Then one day in 3rd grade I was pulled out of class and led to the teacher's lounge in my elementary school. It was explained to me that there was a counselor who wanted to speak with me and I should feel comfortable telling her the truth. Upon my arrival at the impromptu psychiatrist's office I noticed that there were 6 other kids present- all of whom were American Indian.

Until that moment I had little to no knowledge of what race was or what it meant. I had heard some of my classmates call each other names on the playground before but when I repeated them to my mother I was told that they were bad- even worse than "fuck" or "shit"- and I was not to say them anywhere for any reason whatsoever. In my 7 year old mind any word worse than "fuck" or "shit" was equivalent to stabbing a Ninja Turtle in the eye with a rusty nail, so I listened to my mother and made sure not to say them. At that point in my life the basic concept that people could be separated by skin color or cultural beliefs was so far beyond me it may as well have been a complicated algebraic equation. In the innocent opinion of a 3rd grader, we were all the same- just variations of shades.

While I sat in that hideous group therapy session, I remember wondering what I was doing there. I knew that I was similar to the other kids but I did not look like them (my father is a French/Spanish mix). As the counselor proceeded to ask us questions they slowly grew increasingly personal; "Does anybody at home ever smoke or drink anything that makes them act funny or not like themselves? Do your mom or dad ever hit you?". And then came the question that made us all giggle uncontrollably- "Does anybody ever touch you in your bathing suit area?". From that day forward we were instructed to report to the teacher's lounge once a week where we would spend half our time learning about "Indian stuff", like making cheap bracelets and dreamcatchers, and then the other half of the time talking about our home lives. I didn't know it yet but I had been placed in an outreach program for "at risk youth" for no reason other than the fact that I was classified as an "Indian" and my mother lived alone.

Almost immediately I saw a change in the way the other kids would act towards me. It felt like a wall had been built and I was frantically trying to jump up and look over it. On numerous occasions I was targeted by bullies and the teachers seemed to take less of an interest in my education. The further I slipped through the cracks, the more I was ignored and so I began to focus my frustration inwards. I couldn't understand what was happening, why some of the kids that I thought were my friends were treating me differently, sometimes even making fun of me or picking on me for being an Indian. I didn't even know what it meant to be one let alone what could possibly be so unappealing about it. As a result of this I became incredibly insecure and I developed disruptive behavior and a tendency to lash out violently. By 7th grade the problem was so bad that I was suspended from school over 20 times and even though I wasn't there enough have the slightest understanding of what was being taught, they passed me through to high school.

The more violent and disruptive I was, the more "at risk" I became and as I entered high school I was making good time on a downward spiral to nowhere. Right away I was shuffled into alternative programs designed for those with learning disabilities and mental handicaps. Nobody on the teaching staff bothered to inquire about my IQ or if I even had a learning disability to begin with. No, it was a matter of out of sight, out of mind for them. I was a problem that would only be addressed when I broke the rules (or somebody's nose), at which point I was sent to another school and tucked away until it happened again. I bounced around schools so much that eventually my original high school had to re-enlist me because no other school would accept me and under Canadian law it is illegal for a child under the age of 16 to be removed from the education system without parental consent. So they took me back under 2 conditions; I would agree to attend anger management one day a week and I would be part of their "special" Career And Personal Planning class for First Nations' students (“First Nations” is Canada's PC term for Indian).

The anger management course was a fucking joke. It was a once a week after school course where basically all of the worst kids in the city got together, ate pizza, traded phone numbers and sold weed to each other. But of the 2 courses, Career And Personal Planning (CAPP) class was by far the worst. Once again, it was nothing more than a bunch of Indians shoved into a room together- except this time instead of a fat old woman asking us if our daddies like to touch our peepees, we had an unenthusiastic gym teacher who preferred to sit at his desk and read the newspaper rather than engage us. 75% of the time he didn’t even show up (I later learned that I never received any credit for taking this course. It would have taken me an extra 2 years to earn my diploma if I had chosen to finish high school).

As my reputation for being a bad seed grew, my trips to the principle’s office became ever so frequent. Finally, in the second half of 10th grade and after a particularly tense confrontation with my history teacher, my principle had reached his limit with me. An absurdly stereotypical rugby playing Irishman by the name of Mr. Savage, he called me (literally grabbed and threw me) into his office and handed me a book. He said, “This is it. I’m pulling you out of Social Studies. I’ve had enough of your shit. You are to read this book and report back to me. I’m teaching an Indian history class next year and you’re going to take it. You’re also going to help me create it. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you”. The book he gave to me was Russell Means’ autobiography entitled, “Where White Men Fear To Tread”.

Unbeknownst to Mr. Savage and probably every other teacher at that school, I was already reading books like Dante’s “Divine Comedy” on my spare time and I had a very strong command of the English language thanks to my obsession with MCing. So I figured that I would rip through the book in a week and spend the rest of the year using my spare period to talk to girls or write raps in my notepad.

But as soon as I glanced at the pages of “Where White Men Fear To Tread” I was glued to it. For the first time ever somebody was speaking directly to me and describing my insecurities and fears while breaking me down to the last molecule and building me up again. His words grabbed a hold of me and forced me to search deep inside myself for answers to questions I didn’t even know were there. He knew every single piece of me and he defined me as a human being who had value. As I read about his years leading the American Indian Movement and fighting against the American government on behalf of Indians everywhere, I felt as if I was a part of something bigger and I was proud to have that blood flowing through my veins.

In the months following my initial introduction to “Where White Men Fear To Tread”, I read the book cover to cover religiously. In less than half of a year Russell Means changed my life and transformed me into the man that I am today.

So when news broke Monday morning (Oct 22nd, 2012) that Russell Means had succumbed to cancer and passed away, I felt, and still feel, like I lost a mentor. He was not a perfect man but he was as close to a hero as I’ve ever had. He was a true revolutionary, fearless in every sense of the word and unwilling to compromise on any level. He fought the police, FBI and Bureau of Indian Affairs (among other agencies), seized Indian land, survived countless assassination attempts and most importantly, was instrumental in bringing sovereign rights to the Oglala Lakota Nation. I never knew him personally but I felt like he knew me. It’s odd to say this, but on Monday I said goodbye to a guide and maybe the best friend I’ve ever had.

A lot of people in the media have had conflicting opinions of Russell Means over the years. Some have labeled him an egomaniac, a self-involved promoter of personal interest or, as this fucking weasel at The New York Times would put it, a murderer. But I can assure you; he was none of those things. Yes, he mastered the art of manipulating the media and used it for his benefit, but the Indian struggle and Russell Means were synonymous. Wherever he went he shed light on the problems that the Indians of today are facing and he was unafraid to address issues that we refuse to approach on our own. He devoted his life to his people and he was a member of a small group that included names like Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, Che Guevara and Huey Newton- in fact, he worked closely with the Black Panthers in the 70’s and with the indigenous people of South America in the 80’s. The FBI and the American government strived time and time again to destroy him and like Malcolm X they went as far as trying to have him assassinated by his own people. His face was covered in scars, his body riddled with bullets but in the end he left this planet peacefully in his own home, on his own land like God intended.

One of my life goals was to someday shake Russell Means’ hand and thank him for everything he did to point me in the right direction. There are no words to express how grateful I am that he reached out to me and made me realize my significance not just as an Indian man but also as a human being. He’s gone now but I know that if there is a heaven, he’s there- free and happy.

SAFE JOURNEYS MR. MEANS. PEACE BE WITH YOU.

(Jason James is an artist, freelance columnist and writer for RefinedHype.com. You can listen/download his most recent album, "Marvelous World Of Color", here and you can contact him here and here.)

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