Alameda Native History Project

Category: Archives

  • What Does “Save Shellmounds, Not Parking Lots” Even Mean?

    It’s not just a salty catch-phrase. It’s a plea for reason, and a plan to move forward in realizing the protection and return of sacred Native American sites in the San Francisco Bay Area.

    The only way to protect sacred sites, like Shellmounds, and Petroglyphs, is by actively protecting them.

    This means:

    • Recognizing the difference between corporations who claim to be tribal governments, and actual Tribal Governments.
    • Empowering Tribal Law Enforcement with the Authority to Arrest and Prosecute Non-Indians Within Their Sovereign Borders
    • Adding Sacred Sites not protected by Tribal Law Enforcement to the “Beat” of the Law Enforcement branches of the Bureau of Land Management, USDA Dept. of Forestry, Cal. Dept. of Fish and Wildlife, etc.
    • Utilizing modern surveillance technology to serve as witness to crimes like vandalism, theft, and dumping.

    By concealing these heritage sites, we begin to make them taboo. They become places we don’t go to anymore. Places that we could lose our connection to, ironically, because we wanted to protect them.

    (more…)

  • Wiki Down (For Now), Merch Section Removed, New Content On The Way

    I can’t believe we’re nearing the end of the second year of Alameda Native Art, and the Alameda Native History Project, already. I feel like I’ve been sleeping on this site. Now there’s a whole bunch of stuff to add, and update.

    ANHP Wiki

    The ANHP Wiki reached it’s functional limit on Tuesday; when it broke for the last time. Hopefully, DokuWiki, or MediaWiki will upgrade their code a little in the next update. (Fingers crossed.)

    Merch Section

    I opened a Merchandise section to see if I could offer more prints and stickers for cheaper than RedBubble does. (It’s expensive.) But… I need the storefront and everything to be fully automatic, because I can’t be bothered with processing orders, payments, and shipping. And, I’m also not gonna buy 1,000 stickers, and just hope I can sell them all.

    I have considered buying a bunch of slaps to give away or send to friends. That’s always an option.

    New Content Coming

    Lemme just list the things I’ve done in the past couple of months:

    Visual Art, Maps, Graphic Design

    1. San Francisco Bay Area Tribal Language Groups Map
    2. San Francisco Bay Area Tribal Groups Map
      1. And combinations of the above, sometimes with the San Francisco Bay Region Shellmounds Map
    3. Verona Area Maps
    4. Cover Art of various Historical Newspaper Articles, and for Books
    5. Social Justice Art
    6. Other collages.

    Articles/Pages

    I have a number of write-ups to start. I’ve got some drafts to re-visit, and finish; as well as new topics. And, lots of pages to update, and redesign, with all this content.

    Writing, Stories, Serials

    I’ve been having difficulty deciding whether or not I want to start talking about ghosts, and spirits, and stuff. I know it’s close to Halloween now, and everything….

    And I’m concurrently devoting a lot of time to a project that is rooted in fact, and basically exalts the kinds of documentary evidence that does not exist, and cannot be found, when it comes to ghosts, and spirits, (and stuff.)

    But I desperately need to address the spiritual intersectionality of being Native American–and having a spirituality that is deeply connected with the earth and the celestial bodies–and doing something which is supposed to be “administered”, or carried on dispassionately.

    I can’t argue with my feelings as if they’re facts. I can’t use a hunch; a hummingbird; or the faint sound of singing on the wind as evidence.

    I want to tell you that these things led me to the shellmounds; showed me to the evidence; helped me out without any real information to go off of. That I seemed to arrive there by magic, or Luck (with a capital “L”.)

    Common Sense isn’t scientific, either. But this is investigative journalism, if you really put me in a corner. I’m just answering all of the questions I had as kid; I’m trying to accumulate all the information I need to form a model of “what it looked like” in my head. Somehow continuing an inquiry-based education.

    But this journey is based on a deep-seeded wound that I have held on to for too long. Something I still can’t really define, yet. (But I’m working on it.) It has to do with my adoption. And my search for myself, and my birth family.

    It’s almost the end of second year of this project (“Season 2′).

    It’s time for some deeper reflection. And some story-telling.

  • Milliken 2009, “A Time of Little Choice”, Has Just Been Liberated

    Anthropology, Archaeology, and Ethnology have always been competitive fields. In the East Bay, Native American Graves Consulting is a booming, and exclusive business.

    And, the documented existence of the Ohlone people, who have occupied the East Bay continuously, for thousands of years, hinges upon the information locked away behind paygates; only being referenced by Developers, and City Attorneys.

    The exclusivity of this information has been exploited for money. And used to bolster false claims of sovereignty.

    • Cover
    • Page 28
    • Page 180
    • Page 252
    • Page 279
    But, let me be clear:
    The only reason you have this information is because you robbed our ancestors’ graves.

    On a very basic level–without being reductive–these academic papers; all of the information; tangible and non-tangible things that have been developed, derived, or created from the desecration of our ancestors….

    All of that still belongs to us.

    ” A Time of Little Choice: The Disintegration of Tribal Culture in the San Francisco Bay Area 1769-1810″

    Randal Milliken, 2009

    Milliken 2009 A Time of Little ChoiceDownload

  • Is Corrina Gould Really Related to Jose Guzman? How come she isn’t enrolled in Muwekma? (And other nosy questions, because Rachel Dolezal, and Elizabeth Warren)

    It’s rude to question someone’s pedigree, generally.

    But it’s a necessary challenge in Native America that every single one of us faces multiple times in our lives.

    We want to know who someone is related to when they say they’re Paiute, or Karkin–’cause they’re probably related to us somehow, or we know some of the same people. It’s a small world. We keep track of our own, and each other’s blood quantum. Because it’s important.

    But we also want to make sure that people aren’t coming in and faking. Collecting money for a cause, but really keeping it for themselves. Taking our benefits because the American Government did all these terrible things to us. (It’s a well established fact that the U.S. Government just said **** the treaties.)

    Claiming Native American Heritage when you don’t have any, is like wearing a Purple Heart you didn’t earn. Just like with wearing a medal you didn’t give a piece of yourself in the defense of this country to earn; owning and displaying eagle feathers is super illegal if you’re not Native American.

    But most of time there is no legitimate consequence for being a “fake indian”. There are so many cheap knock-off’s, and bad copies, I’m not surprised you can’t tell the difference.

    For example: Elizabeth Warren is a classic caricature of the “cherokee princess” scenario. And, apparently Ward Churchill was our Rachel Dolezal before she ever decided to put on black face. But, you know what? There are a lot of fake shaman and medicine men out there, feeding the world this mainstream, kumbaya B.S. about the colors of the wind or something; and collecting your money for some sus ceremony with a raggy owl wing.

    This is why we have a problem with Instragram Accounts like “NativeAmericanLovess”, or “NativeAmericanSpiritLoves”… They are fronts for stores that sell art that does nothing but fetishize real Native Americans; and make owning, wearing, and using our sacred ceremonial items a game.

    These people are making money off of our likeness, our trauma, and our pain. They are making cheap knock-offs of our culture, and identity. And White America is just eating it up. Shelling out bills to go to “Hiawatha” ceremonies. Paying to play Indian.

    And it’s the people who sell these images. The ones who say their grandma, six great-grandmas ago was Cherokee. Who went to one of those ceremonies, and smoked some tobacco with some other herbs out of a “peace pipe”, contacted their animal guide, and is now some kind of “ordained” “Native American Church” spiritual guru leader shaman chief medicine man.

    These are the people we want to stay away from us. The people we don’t want to share our knowledge and beliefs with. Because, these people, will appropriate it all, and try to find a way to make money off it.

    This might be an explanation of why we don’t want to talk about this stuff under the White Gaze. Because it’s “Indian Stuff”. But we can’t stand interlopers. This is why pedigree is important.

    But just because the person who made the argument is invalid, the argument itself is not necessarily invalid.

    As much as we hate to admit it, these people who made us look like fools also contributed greatly to their respective causes. And the organizations they were associated with ultimately survived the scandal. But neither Ward Churchill, nor Rachel Dolezal were who they said they were.

    And it wasn’t until years after they started their charades, that they were finally exposed. Up until then, people had been too afraid to ask, to timid to confront, past attempts had failed. It’s much easier to attack the person making the argument, than the argument itself.

    And people honestly want to believe the lie. It’s better than admitting to themselves they’ve been lied to this whole time. Better not to risk being wrong. Not be rude, or mean. Or look racist.

    But, let me be clear:

    Pedigree is necessary for Tribal Enrollment, and to receive State, and Federal Benefits. It’s a racist system, based in eugenics. It’s even more distasteful than it sounds, when you are subjected to it. [Yes, I have been subjected to this same test. Same level of scrutiny that every other person who claims to be Native American is subjected to.]

    We are turned into “subjects”.

    Equated with Hermann J. Muller’s radioactive flies.

    Maybe that’s too obscure….

    But it’s normal for us to ask each other who our grandmothers are, and how much Indian we are. It’s a standard test.

    So don’t act shook that I took the time to look into Corrina Gould’s genealogy. Maybe the “White Gaze” is afraid to ask. But, after Ward Churchill, and Rachel Dolezal…. And the discovery of Corrina Gould’s 1997 conviction for fraud…. I think it’s important to ask.

    Who are these people?

    Flora Freda Munoz, and Jose Guzman are two very well-known and important family members associated with the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe, and the Verona Band Proxy–which is the historical name for this group of inter-related Native American people, who used to live in the Alisal Rancheria (near the Verona train station, Pleasanton area), Niles, San Leandro… It’s a specific list because the BIA documents–mentioned below–stick to Indian Censuses, including one of a place called “Indian Town”, near pleasanton, in the late 1920’s. Researchers think this may be the Alisal Rancheria.

    Much of the information about the Muwekma Family Tree that I gathered was pieced together from the Proposed Finding, and Final Determination Upon The Criterion re: Federal Recognition of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe, in 2011.

    Muwekma Ohlone Tribe Family Tree,
    using BIA Proposed Find and Final Determination re: Petition for Federal Recognition

    However, I later found the public Galvan Stenstrom Family Tree on Ancestry.com, and found that to be the most authoritative reference to the descendants of the Verona Band. Even so, I still compared it with the information in the BIA documents, as you will see later.

    The public Galvan Stenstrom Family Tree is massive. It has hundreds of individuals; was created, and contributed to by Muwekma Family members, as well as the Ancestry.com people… Who are based in Utah, by the way. It’s really amazing the amount of research that went into the families comprising the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe. It’s truly crowd-sourced.

    To research Corrina Gould, I used Public Records, Newspapers, various statements and interviews of Corrina Gould, and litany of databases at Ancestry.com. I also found the “Gould Family Tree”. (More about that later.) In all cases, I began searching for the individual first, and didn’t discover or access the family trees until I wanted to check/challenge my work.

    Corrina Gould, “On the Record”

    In 2014, Corrina Gould contributed an autobiographical oral history to “Ohlone Elders & Youth Speak: Restoring a California Legacy”. In her contribution, Gould revealed her grandmother was “Flora Munoz”, and that her great grandfather was “Jose Guzman”.

    In 2015, in an interview regarding the canonization of Junipero Serra, Gould volunteered an explanation of how she was related to Andrew Galvan:

    “I’m actually related to Andy Galvan…” Gould explained Andrew Galvan is the docent at Mission Dolores, in San Francisco. She continued, “Our relation is that our grandmothers, six great-grandmothers back were sisters.”

    Corrina Gould, Episode 58 of “Iconocast”, recorded 09/23/2015.

    A more recent article, from May 25, 2021, states that Corrina Gould’s mother was taken to Chemawa Indian School, in Salem, Oregon.

    Oddly, it seems that Corrina Gould hasn’t mentioned her own mother by name. So, that was where I started.

    Statements about Corrina Gould’s family. (Mostly made by Gould herself.)

    I was able to find the Gould Family Tree, on Ancestry.com, after I had failed at finding any links to Flora Munoz or Jose Guzman in numerous Public Records searches.

    But I was able to find Gould’s late husband, Paul Gould Jr., and her late brother, Anthony Tucker. (Both died in the first half of 2021.) And her children, and children’s families. So, from public records, I was able to find Corrina Gould, her immediate family and brothers. I was not able to find any ancestry information.

    However, the information I found in public records helped me verify the Gould Family Tree, to a certain extent. On Ancestry.com, living people are masked. So the living descendants of Fred Edward Tucker, Paul Gould Sr., and Jesse L. Aceves were mostly hidden.

    There were hints, though. Like links to individuals who weren’t masked, who were already known. It didn’t take too much time to verify that I was looking at the family trees of Corrina Gould, and her, and her mother’s, first husbands.

    Don’t worry. I made charts.

    Excerpt from the “Gould Family Tree”. Problematic for obvious reasons.

    So, I found the Gould Family tree (excerpt above). But I also found it critically lacking in verifiable information. The birth and death date for “John Munoz” and “Victoria Marin” do not appear, for instance. [And John Munoz’s death date?! That says six years before Corrina’s mother was even born! WTFITS?!]…

    Flora Munoz–Corrina’s grandmother–isn’t refered to as “Flora Freda Munoz”, which is the true name of the Muwekma Family Member, who was the daughter of Victoria Marine.

    This is not an attempt at being facetious. Middle names matter. Try going to a bank with a court order to access your grandma’s safe deposit box, and being turned away because the judge didn’t include her middle name.

    It also matters because, on its face, the birth and death dates are already different. There’s a divergence between what Corrina Gould has said about her ancestry, and what bears out in the facts and evidence.

    Genealogy Logic Bomb

    This is where I started getting confused. There were at least two logic-bombs here; and I didn’t want to be misled by something that was probably put together really quickly, with the intention to correct later.

    I made a timeline of Joanne Guzman’s life, according to her daughter, Corrina Gould; so I could address one of Corrina Gould’s other claims, that Joanne Guzman had been taken to Chemawa Indian School.

    Joanne Guzman Timeline

    According to the established timeline of the Muwekma Tribe/Verona Band, the children of Flora Freda Munoz, and John “Jack” Guzman–John Jr. and Rayna–were sent to boarding school, twice. The first time in 1928, when Flora was sick. And the second was from 1944-1947 at the Chemawa Indian Highschool, when Corrina Gould’s mom, Joanne Guzman, was only 4.

    This means–according to this Ancestry.com thing: Corrina’s Uncle, John, would have been 8 in 1944. And her aunt, Rayna, would have been 6. None of Corrina Gould’s mom’s siblings were highschool age in the years between 1944, and 1947, when the Muwekma Family member John Guzman Jr., was determined to be 5/8 indian, and allowed to enroll in Chemawa–with his sister, Rayna, following a year later.

    Although, a typographical error in the 1940 US Census marks Joanne Guzman as “2” or “0”, the Birth Certificate for “Joan” Guzman, dated Jan-7-1940 helps add clarity; when the Father and Mother’s names are taken into full account.

    Examination of “Joanne Guzman’s” Family
    Informational Copy of Joanne Guzman’s Birth Certificate
    1940 US Census of Washington Township, Alameda County

    It wasn’t until I pulled the hard copies of both Corrina (Tucker) Gould, and Joanne Guzman’s birth certificates, that I was really able to illustrate the differences between the two families.

    Once that was done, I pulled together all of the dates, and sources, and put them back into another chart, so I could compare the information side-by-side.

    From this comparison, it appears that these are two different family trees. And, while the names of Joanne Guzman’s family, match those of Flora Freda Munoz, and John Guzman’s: they are not the same.

    But let’s look closer at Joan Guzman’s birth certificate:

    Guzman, Joan (Birth Certificate)Official Muwekma Records
    Mother: 22 (1918)Flora Freda Munoz: 1917
    Father: 37 (1903)John Paul “Jack” Guzman: 1902
    These dates match within a year. Only one “Joan Guzman” was born in Alameda County between 1940, and 1944.

    After reviewing this information, and comparing it to the Ancestry.com “Gould Family Tree”, it looks like the Gould Family tree is super wrong… But Joanne Guzman might really be the unknown daughter of the Jose Guzman and Flora Freda Munoz!

    There is still the issue of the Guzman Family in the 1940 US Census…

    Name, Relation to Head, Gender, Race, Age, [Approx. Birth Year]
    Guzman John, Head, M, W, 37, [1903]
    Flora, Wife, F, W, 23, [1917]
    John “Jr.”, Son, M, W, 4, [1936]
    Rayna, Daughter, F, W, 2, [1938]
    Joanne [check mark], Daughter, F, W, [two crossed out] 0, [1940]

    Wait….

    Before we solve this… I need to remind you that John Guzman Jr., and Rayna Guzman were both “Highschool Age” (13 or 14), in 1944, and 1945 respectively–when they were sent to Chemawa Indian School, which was a highschool since 1927.

    This means John Guzman Jr. was born sometime around 1931/32; Rayna Guzman around 1933/34.

    Or, just counting back four years from 1944, John Guzman Jr. would be about 10, making Rayna about 9.

    Joanne’s
    Birth Certificate    		Official Muwekma1940 US Census
    John Guzman361902 (38)37
    Flora Munoz221917 (23)23
    John Guzman Jr.null[10]4
    Rayna Guzmannull[9]2
    Joanne Guzman0null0
    [Discussed above.] Joanne’s birth cert. only has parental info.
    No official Muwekma Documents mention Joanne Guzman.

    So, First Actions On:

    1. Downgrade “Gould Family Tree” to “Unreliable”. (Even though the birth info for Joanne Guzman was legit.)
    2. Marvel at how similar these two families really are (in name only.)
    3. Note the age differences between the ages of Flora Freda Munoz’ family, and Flora Munoz’ family.
    4. Joanne Guzman is still not listed in any official Muwekma Records.
    5. Joanne Guzman is found in the 1940 U.S. Census, in a family bearing almost the exact same names as Flora Fred Munoz’ family.
    6. Decide whether it’s more likely that Corrina Gould’s mother is the long lost daughter of John Paul “Jack” Guzman, and Flora Freda Munoz; or the exact match Joanne Guzman, born in 1940, to a family with principally the same names as the aforementioned.

    Given the age differences between Joanne’s siblings, to the established ages of John Guzman Jr., and Rayna Guzman in 1944, it seems unlikely that Corrina Gould’s mother–Joanne Guzman–is related to Flora Freda Munoz, or John Paul “Jack” Guzman.

    This would also suggest Corrina Gould is not related to Andrew Galvan.

    While it is true that Corrina Gould’s grandmother really is “Flora Munoz”; and that her mother’s family, closely resembles a well known Muwekma family:

    No direct evidence was found that ties Corrina Gould to the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe, or the Verona Band.

    However:

    [Update added on May-29-2023]

    Alan Leventhal—Muwekma Ohlone Tribal Ethno-Historian and Archeologist–confirmed at the December 6, 2022 Indigenous Listening Session of the Alameda City Council, that Corrina Gould is related to the tribe.

    The Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area, has recently confirmed that Corrina Gould is a recognized descendant of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.

    It’s also true that Corrina Gould could be enrolled in the Muwekma Tribe.

    It would be great to see Corrina drop the façade and actually fight for, and help contribute to her real tribe; because, right now, she’s managed to take all the attention and support away from the people she actually belongs to.

  • Zombie: The Incident at Bloody Rock – Four

    Four

    I’d never been able to sleep on those big jumbo jets.  I don’t know what it was about them.  Maybe it was because they flew so high up.  I remember one time I flew redeye to Dulles from San Francisco in a 747 and didn’t sleep a wink.  Then we flew from Dulles to a small airport in Pennsylvania, in a little mudskipper.  We’re talking a fifty passenger, two prop plane.  I slept like a baby the whole flight.  Maybe it was the adrenaline come-down, or the safety of my father.  My dreams were vivid:

    I saw it happening in front of me, the whole terrifying experience of dying.  The pain, the gore, I imagined myself on the hospital bed, bleeding out, burning out and choking on my own breath until it all went black.

    …Then waking up again like it was some bad dream.  I saw the astonishment I felt reflected in the nurses’ faces.  I wondered if I were ghost.  I felt as if I were replaying something that already happened when I looked over and saw the others tearing the room up.  I already knew to hide.  I watched as people ran past me screaming, only to be brought down and eaten.  I scrunched myself down in a storage bin and closed my eyes.  All around me I could hear people screaming, pleading for their lives, suffering….  I covered my ears so I couldn’t hear and prayed.

    From somewhere else, I could hear Clive telling dad that’s when I found him.  In my haze, I struggled to come to; I was almost too tired to move.  The car had stopped; I felt like we were still waiting for George.  Then I remembered, the images of his burning truck coming back.  I wondered which killed him: the truck rolling over, or the subsequent fire.

    As I climbed back into the cabin, I noticed my ankle was feeling a lot better.

    Clive turned around and asked, “Did you sleep okay?”

    “Yeah,” I said, “But I don’t think I really slept.  I think I dreamt what you were telling dad about what happened.”

    “How long have we been stopped?”  I asked.

    “Maybe about fifteen minutes,” Dad said.

    We all looked at each other for a moment.  I felt like I had interrupted the flow of things.

    “So. . .” I began awkwardly, “Why are we stopped here?”

    Dad let out his breath and shrugged.  “I don’t know . . . .  I just wanted to rest, I guess.  Try to get a grip on what just happened.”

    “Oh,” I said, “Watch out, Clive, I need to stretch my legs.”

    I pushed Clive out of the way, pulled the latch and flopped out of the door, onto my back, in the dirt.  The cool earth greeted me and I savored the feeling of calm and serenity, the pine scent, the dirt.  I took a big whiff of dirt-smell and looked at the sky.  I cocked my head to the left and looked out over the lake.  In the distance, I could see a thin trail of black smoke rising from where we left George…

    We were in front of the coffee shop, three doors up the street from the gas station.  The sky was bright blue, except for the horizon, where I could see the last thin strips color before the sun would to peek over the hills.  My watch showed sixty forty-three.

    The road we were on was a two-way; one lane larger than the unmarked dirt roads we had escaped on.  The shoulder of the north side being nothing but wood.  There was the rise of another valley hill maybe five hundred yards off.  The place was a ghost town, just like I thought.  It didn’t look like anything had been open in a while.  The window of the coffee shop had a thick layer of dust.  As I pressed my face against the glass I could see everything inside was coated as well.

    “Dad,” I said.

    He came over and stood by me.  We were both looking at the smoke now.  I wanted to tell him not to feel bad.  But I kinda wanted him to tell me that.  The incidents at Bloody Rock were so fresh I couldn’t think about them without breathing heavier.  And then there was Clive.  I found myself spacing out for a minute, thinking about what would happen, eventually.  Then I wasn’t really thinking about that, I was just staring out.

    “It’s unbelievable,” Dad said quietly.

    When I turned, he was looking at me solemnly.  But somewhere in his eyes I saw a glint.

    “What is?”  I asked him.

    “How are you so calm?”  Dad asked me, “Are you just pretending?  What Clive told me. . .”

    He left off there, probably realizing he didn’t need to tell me.  I took a few seconds to think about what I would say.  I wasn’t really calm inside.  But we were away from it.  We had that much.  How long would it take for them to wander?  Or chase the others into the woods?  Do they even need to eat?

    “I don’t know,” I said to myself, as much as him.  “I just took it at face value, took it like I had to.”

    He looked at me.

    “It was really just self-preservation,” I told him.

    Dad asked, “How’s your ankle?”

    I shifted my weight back and forth on it.  It felt really stiff, but I could still use it, for the most part.

    “It’s okay, I guess.”  I told him, “Could use some ice, though.”

    When Clive came over to tell us we were forty-five minutes away from the highway, I noticed his eyes were a little paler.  They looked like a gray instead of blue.  And he used to have brown eyes.  Dad and I both shared a look before examining the route.  It was different from the way we came, but it would shave off fifteen minutes.  And the road looked fairly flat, once we hit the ridge.

    The winds shifted direction, a dry heat wafting over us.  I could have sworn I heard something humming in the distance.  Clive was looking at me.

    “Who do you think called Dr. Robertson?” He asked.

    “I don’t know,” I said, “All the phones I tried weren’t working.  And we didn’t get cell phone reception.”

    “Maybe he was just crazy,” Dad offered.

    I couldn’t argue with that.  The little asshole was probably bunkered up in his office, talking to an imaginary person on the phone.  I let out a low chuckle at the thought.

    “Let’s get out of here.”  Clive said.

    “You don’t have to twist my arm,” Dad replied.

    So we mounted up and drove away. The road was deserted.  Only a couple SUV’s passed us.  Then we turned on the freeway.  By the time my stomach started to gurgle uncontrollably, we’d been driving for two hours and were in Santa Rosa.  Dad spotted a McDonald’s and told us it was time for breakfast.

    The first thing that Clive and I did when we walked into the McDonald’s was wash our hands.  Mine were stained the color of the earth outside the hospital; they looked like I had been digging in red clay, if one didn’t know better.  I tried not to notice as I scrubbed errant bits of hair off my fingernails.  After my hands, I scrubbed my face.  I was tan, normally.  But my face was covered in a thin layer of grime.  More from camping than anything else; I smelled, too.  The smell of the hospital had eased since I changed clothes, but the smell was still stuck in my hair; and it felt like it clung to my skin.

    After I dried off, I took Clive’s pulse, hoping. . . .  But his skin was cold.  And he still didn’t have a pulse.  His eyes were still the lightest, dullest blue I’d ever seen.  Enzyme packages my ass, I thought.  This is some voodoo bullshit.

    When we walked out, Dad had gotten us a pile of McMuffins.  

    “I hop you brought your appetite,” He said.

    Oh man, I thought.

    I tore into the food with a reckless abandon.

    Running for my life had me hungry.  Dad was more conservative, and I noticed Clive just sniffing at the food.  In between a gulp of orange juice and giant bite of egg, sausage and muffin, I took the patty out of Clive’s sandwich and squirted a bunch of ketchup on it, so it looked bloodier.

    “That’s not funny,” He told me.

    “Get used to it,” I told him, “You can’t eat the dog.”

    “’m not hungry,” Was all Clive said.

    I laughed anyway.  A kind of desperate, denial-laugh.

    “Seriously, though,” I told him, “Eat the fucking burger.”

    “Don’t talk to your brother like that!”  Dad snapped.  My dad was scary when he got angry sometimes.

    “Sorry, Clive,” I said.

    “S’okay,” He mumbled.

    Clive picked up the patty, then, and nibbled at it.  I watched him think about the taste, the texture.  I was kind of alarmed when I realized his nostrils were flared and he was looking at the other people eating.  I could tell he really wanted them.  Or us, for that fact.  I tried not to think about it, so I just concentrated on eating.  Dad tried to make small talk, but he could kind of tell Clive and I were both in our own little worlds.

    When I finished, I got up, balled up my wrappers and shit, threw it in the trash, washed my hands, wiped my face and walked outside.  I did all of that while I tried not to focus on the very real fear of my brother rising in me.  Clive wasn’t my brother.  Rodney wasn’t my friend.  Those things in the hall way weren’t my friends.  Even that woman, the one I crushed the head of….  She wasn’t really a woman.

    I shook my head and lit a cigarette; the conflict between what I saw and what I knew was the truth simmering just below the surface.  I hoped that my brother and my dad finished soon.

    Sooner or later, I thought.

    I could already see the battle to the death.  I don’t know why Rodney didn’t lift me up by the eye sockets, too.  Or even tore out my throat or hit me with an EKG monitor.  Why didn’t he?  But Clive was definitely capable of something like it.  Dad should have asked him how he could be so calm.  How did it feel to be a zombie?  How was any of this possible?

    And if we killed him, what would we do with the body?

    “Jesus christ!” I said aloud, “I can’t believe I’m actually thinking about this.”

    A mom with two kids walked out.  The kids were tyke, pretty much unaware of their surroundings.  The mom looked kinda tired as she herded them to the wagon.  It seemed so wrong.  If I’d left him, would he have turned on me?  If I had killed him, I was sure it would’ve felt much worse right now.  But I had to take him with me.

    God damn it.

    When Dad and Clive came back out, I asked to drive.  Dad gave me the keys and I hopped in.  Man, I loved driving the Toyota; and I drove it fast, too.  I rolled the windows down and turned on some oldies to get my mind off everything.  I knew Clive would have to be dealt with.  It was something that I had made my peace with.  In the moments after I snuffed my cigarettes out, I resolved myself to taking the matter into my own hands.  I would make him kill himself.

    Or maybe not; I still didn’t know what to do with the body.  I mean—“alive”—Clive is a zombie.  Dead, Clive is just a dead kid.  And cops are going to want to know why there’s a dead kid in your house.  There’s gonna be an investigation.  Someone has to be blamed, and it wasn’t gonna be me.

    If we didn’t kill him: then what?  Would we let him decompose until he couldn’t move?  Would he be completely conscious during the rest of his decay?  Frankly, would he like for us to bury him alive?  As I rolled over the Richmond Bridge, I considered dumping him in the bay.  A cement coffin might do well.  The body would decompose inside of it; and no one would find it because it’s at the bottom of the bay.

    But then I remembered that this wasn’t just a body.  The whole situation seemed a reversal of all of those hide-the-body dreams I’ve ever had.  This wasn’t just a fit of passion.  But he’s a zombie!  I thought, but I can’t prove it when he’s completely dead!

    It frustrated me, not having an answer.  I needed to have an answer.  I felt like I was on the verge of popping.  But I regained my control, and decide to confer with my father later.  I didn’t know what he thought of the situation.  From what I’d seen, my Dad was pretty much in denial.  He was being kinda vacant, not really bringing attention to anything.  I wondered if he was afraid of Clive, too.  If, maybe, he thought that bringing the matter up would spur an attack.

    At the toll plaza, at the Bay Bridge, I jockeyed my way through cars.  Dad gave me the toll money and I made the hop, skip and jump to our exit.  Sometimes it was convenient living in the middle of the bay.

    When we got home, everything was how we left it.  Everything seemed so normal.  I let out a huge sigh of relief when I opened the front door and the cool air hit me.  We didn’t worry about the stuff in the truck yet.  As Dad and Clive started opening the windows, I dropped my backpack on my bed, turn my computer on, and stood out on the front porch and looked at San Francisco.  I could hear Dad messing with the television.

    The day was clear.  It was about eleven now, and it was unseasonably warm for November.  And, with only a couple hours of sleep, it was incredibly early.  When I turned around and went back inside, Dad was watching channel two.  I remember this part clearly:

    “…And the breaking news: Bombs Destroy the Francis E. Seymour Children’s Research Hospital  in an Apparent Terrorist Attack.  There are no survivors,” Was what the lady said.

    I said, “What the fuck?!”

    Dad said, “Clive!”

    Clive came running and we all looked at the screen.  It was a hill, with a smoldering pile of brick and metal rubble.

    “That’s the hospital!” Clive exclaimed.

    The image cut to a pan over some dead bodies in the wreckage, burning R.V.’s.

    “Officials believe several bombs that were planted inside the hospital exploded earlier than planned.  The explosions completely destroyed the hospital.  What you see behind me is the rubble.  Some of it is still on fire, but fire crews say they have it… [I could hear the sounds of a jet soaring overhead] ninety-percent contained.”

    We looked on in disbelief as they played interviews with someone in camoflauge.

    “This is bullshit,” Dad said.

    Clive and I just looked at each other in disbelief.  The television told us there would be more information at noon.  Fuck, I thought.  Dad jumped up and started screaming cover-up.

    “You can’t show anyone those CD’s now,” Dad told me.  “If they find out we were there. . .”

    He looked at Clive.  I could see the light turn on.  Clive looked at both of us like we were going to kill him.  And who knows?  Maybe we were.

    “Go to your room, Clive,” Dad said.  “We need to talk about you.”

    “Are you going to kill me?”  He asked, obviously afraid.

    But Dad didn’t answer.  Clive went to his room, and slammed his door.  Dad turned the television up in the living room, and we walked into the kitchen, where we wouldn’t be overheard.  He poured a glass of water.

    “Have you been thinking about what to do, too?”  I asked him.

    “Yeah,” Dad says, “But this completely changes everything.”

    I took out the first aid kit and started to wrap my ankle.  It was very stiff, and very swollen, but not broken.  I brought Dad up to speed on what I had already considered.  Dad nodded and sipped his water.

    In the background, I could hear the reporters talking about “assassination.”  One of the African diplomats who were supposed to in attendance was running for re-election.  He was very unpopular, the report said, and lots of people wanted him out.  It was amazing how deep the lie was.

    They already had people in jail for orchestrating the attack.  I wondered what the omnipotent “they” would do if they ever found out we were alive.  My only regret was that I couldn’t be there to witness the spectacle.  Those things were exterminated.  At least, I hoped they were.

    “Whatever happened there,” Dad said, “People aren’t supposed to know there were zombies.  And we definitely were not supposed to get away.”

    I wondered how they did it.  How the government decided to destroy everything.  Even though the footage was heavily edited, I was sure the jet in the background was a fighter.  They probably called in the air force, I thought.

    “How many of them do you think escaped?”  I asked.

    “I don’t know…”  Dad replied, “They had a few hours to roam.  Those other two got pretty far…”

    “Do you think they’ll get to civilization?”

    Dad shrugged.

    Then I asked him the real question, “What do we do with the body?”

    Dad’s face went through a series of emotions, the first being shocked anger.  I thought he was going to hit me, honestly.  Then he took on the look he has whenever we play chess and I’ve just backed him into a corner.  He looked at the backyard, probably sizing it up for a burial.

    “We could just bury him under the house,” I cracked.

    “Don’t be morbid,” Dad told me, “This is already bad enough without you being so insensitive.”

    That hurt.  I didn’t say anything after that.  We looked at each other, trying to come up with an alternative.

    “There can’t be an autopsy,” Dad said, “That’s just going to expose us.  And so are those discs.  You should destroy them immediately.  We need to burn those clothes.  How long do you think we have with Clive?”

    “I don’t know,” I told him.  “Compared to Rodney and everyone else . . . he’s lasted for quite a while.  When Rodney attacked me, his eyes were yellow.  I don’t know if that’s the benchmark, but Clive’s eyes have only been getting paler.”

    “When do you think it’ll happen?”  Dad asked.

    “Probably tonight,” I told him.

    Dad asked, “Do you think we should ask for his opinion?”

    “You can,” I told him.  “I’ve had my share of murder.”

    Dad gave me a concerned look, “You don’t think it’s murder, do you?”

    He said, “The doctors checked him.  He’s dead.  They’re all dead, Kenny.  If we kill him…  Well, we won’t be killing him.”

    “But how do we explain his disappearance?  How do we just live knowing he’s out there?”  I motioned to the backyard.

    “The disappearance is easy,” Dad told me, “He died in the hospital, okay?”

    “Okay,” I agreed.

    But that still didn’t help the fact that my little brother’s body would be buried on our small property, “just waiting to be dug up by some future homeowner.”  How long would it take a CSI team to track his body to us?

    Even if we could explain what happened . . . it just wouldn’t work.  It would be easier if we let him scratch us . . . or bite us; at least it was self-defense.  But then, weren’t we as good as dead, too?  I should have just left him in the hospital.  It was so fucking ironic how one zombie was suddenly more of a problem than a hospital full of zombies. 

    I followed Dad to the gun case and watched as he opened it and prepped his Sig Sauer for my brother’s execution.  My heart rate went cyclical as he took the silencer out of a shoebox in his closet.  We only needed one bullet, but he popped three in the magazine, and chambered the first round.  I tried not thinking of him doing all of us.  (You know: murder-murder-suicide.)

    He turned around and looked at me, his face was desperate.  I could tell he wanted there to be another way.  But we’d worked ourselves into a corner.  No, I put us here.  This whole thing was my fault.  Dad could look as pathetic as he wanted to, but I knew in my heart of hearts, this was my fault.

    Clive must have heard the sound of Dad chambering his Sig, because he popped his head out of the door.  His eyes had taken on the color of old mayonnaise, opaque, and yellowed around the edges.  We looked back at him like the family dog who had reached his time.  I tried not to be afraid as he came toward us.  When he noticed the gun in Dad’s hand, he looked at us with a determined gaze.  

    “Just do it,” Clive said, as he stepped forward bowed his head

    Dad gasped and gripped the pistol tighter.  I watched it quiver in his hand.  My stomach was twisted in knots.  I couldn’t believe this was actually happening.  Clive was closing his eyes tight, but he looked calm.

    Clive muttered, “We all know you have to, dad.”

    When we didn’t move, he looked at us accusingly.

    “Do it!”  He screamed, “I don’t want to be like Rodney!  I don’t want to wait until I fall to pieces to finally rest.  I can’t feel anything.  I’m not hungry.  But I want to…”

    He grimaced and clenched his knuckles white, growling lowly.  Dad and I both took a step back.  Clive was changing before our eyes.  His eyes were rapidly turning yellow now.  I could see a hint of foam at his mouth.  When he locked eyes with me, I felt a quake go through my whole body.

    This is it, I thought, as Clive lunged towards me.

    Dad peppered Clive across the back with all three bullets, but he didn’t even flinch.  I could hear the sounds of ripping.  Ribbons of red hit the floor between us as he grabbed my outstretched arms.  I tried to break free, but he was much stronger than I expected.  He threw me down to the ground.

    I brought my knees up and kicked him away from me.  There was blood pouring from the holes in his side.  But I knew it didn’t matter to him.  Dad tried to catch Clive, but Clive almost caught him.  It was frantic.

    “Don’t get bit!”  I yelled at Dad.

    As Dad wrestled with Clive, I marveled at how strong my little brother had become.  Even Dad was having a hard time fighting him.  It looked like they were evenly matched.  I looked over at the gun rack and felt a calm rush over me.  Dad had left the keys in the case.  I watched them as I fumbled with the locks to the Mossburg.

    “The head!”  I told dad, “The brain or the brain stem.”

    Dad lightly slammed Clive’s head against the table.  I could tell Dad didn’t really want to hurt Clive.  His look said it all, shock and horror.  When Clive turned around, I could see the corner took a piece of his eyebrow.  As they fought, Clive would lean in every once in a while and try to bit Dad.  Dad was trying to get him to calm down.  But Clive was behind reason.

    “He’s beyond the grave,” I muttered to myself.

    I’ll never forget the sound his teeth made against each other.  I pulled the shotgun out and loaded the steel shot.  Clive whipped around immediately when he heard me chamber the first of four shells.  I flipped the safety on and got ready for Clive’s attack.

    It made me feel good to have the shotgun in my hands; even though I wasn’t going to shoot Clive.  I planned to beat his brain in the backyard.

    When Clive charged me, I stepped back and raised the butt to his chin.  Then I shoved the muzzle in his stomach, pushing him back.  He was fighting and scratching, but I was calm.  I kicked him into the kitchen.

    “Open the door, Dad!” I yelled.  “Get outside.”

    He did as he was told, slipping behind Clive, who growled and tried to scratch him.  I took the opportunity to butt him in the back of the head.  Any normal person would have been unconscious.  But Clive just turned and screamed.  I gave him the final kick and he flew out the back door and hit the dirt a few feet away.  He tried to get up, but I ground my boot in his face until he just laid there.  I thought it was over then.

    But he looked up at me like that girl in the Exorcist and said, “Do it!”

    Dad was standing to the side, shocked, as I stood over Clive and gave him the final blow.  It was one more shotgun butt, to the center of his forehead, straight down.  My knees followed through and the whole butt went through to the back of his skull with no more than a crunch and a wet slapping sound.

    When I removed the shotgun from his face, I tried not to look.  But he was my brother.  His head was caved in, a mess of purple skin, shattered bone, blood and hair.  His eyes were laying in the center, completely yellow now.  The smell was unbearable.  It was so bad I could almost see the fetid, curling trails of stench rising from his lifeless body.

    I dropped the shotgun and heaved until McMuffin was spurting out my nose.  Then I started to cry for my dead brother.  I puked so hard, my throat grew raw.  And the ragged breaths that I was taking in between sobs were filled with the horrible taste of my own bile.  I gave one last heave and laid out on the grass, rolling into a ball in the vomit and blood.

    Dad dropped beside me looked at Clive.  The look of shock and horror was displaced by the disgust . . . and the sorrow.

    It was over.  My brother was dead.  And what was it worth?  I looked at the blood on my clothes, on my hands, and wondered if there was anyone to blame for it.  Besides me.

    “Get the shovels and a trash bag to cover him.” I choked out.

    “What are we going to do now?”  Dad asked.

    We did what any good murderers would do.  We bought some lye, dug a hole and planted roses.

  • Corrina Gould Convicted of Defrauding Alameda County, in 1997, Ordered to Pay $5,275

    On April 17, 1997, Corrina Gould was convicted in Alameda County Criminal Court, for:

    willfully and knowingly, with the intent to deceive, by means of false statement or representation, or by failing to disclose a material fact, or by impersonation or other fraudulent device, obtained or retained [more than $950] aid under the provisions of this division for himself or herself or for a child not in fact entitled thereto.”

    California Welfare & Institutions Code Sec. 10980(C)2

    Gould was sentenced to jail time, and fined.

    There was also a civil judgment against Corrina Gould for the amount of $5,275 dollars, which was entered by her own confession:

    I hereby confess… [d]efendant fraudulently received public assistance benefits from Alameda County that [she] was not entitled to by submitting false written statements under penalty of perjury.”

    Corrina Gould, “Statement and Declaration for Confession of Judgment”, Alameda County Civil Case Number 1997002685

    It is unclear how long Gould spent in jail.

    The case file was destroyed pursuant to the law which governs case file retention. (Information about the offense, and Gould’s subsequent conviction is still available in the Alameda County Superior Court Criminal Index.)

    Alameda County Superior Court Criminal Records Search (SEP-21-2021) for “Corrina Gould”

    But the Welfare & Institutions Code statute Corrina was sentenced by enumerates terms of imprisonment as 16 months, 2 years, and 3 years, or “a fine of not more than $5,000,” or both. The Criminal Index indicated Corrina Gould’s sentence as “Sentence: 001 jail and fined.”

    Corrina Gould was also sentenced to 36 months of probation for defrauding Alameda County Social Services. The exact dollar amount Gould illegally obtained is unknown.

    At the time of Corrina Gould’s conviction for Welfare Fraud, she was working at the American Indian Family Healing Center, in Oakland, California. She would later work for the American Indian Child Resource Center, as a Title VII Coordinator. It’s unclear if either organization knew of Corrina Gould’s conviction for this type of fraud; or, whether or not Gould was involved in filing claims, and/or applying for benefits on behalf their clients.

    Today, Corrina Gould is the spokesperson for Sogorea Te Land Trust, and Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC. She was also a co-founder of Indian People Organizing for Change.

    Sources and Links:

    County of Alameda V. Corrina Gould

    Alameda County Superior Court, Civil Case #1997002685
    County of Alameda V Gould
    County of Alameda V Gould Judgment Pursuant to Confession
    County of Alameda V Corrina Gould #1997002685
    Corrina Gould Confession of Judgment
    Corrina Gould Signed Confession (SSN Redacted)
    Attorney Certification

    Use DomainWeb to view Alameda County Superior Court Documents online.

    Alameda County Superior Court

    re: Corrina Gould, Alameda County Criminal Case #403554

    Alameda County Courts website is at Https://alameda.courts.ca.gov

  • Alameda Native History Project Shellmound Model

    For the first time, ever, an entirely independent research project, led by a Native American descendant, has produced a tangible representation of pre-contact Native American Spirituality and Engineering.

    About the Alameda Native History Project:

    The Alameda Native History Project is an independent, Native-led research project focusing on discovering unknown or misunderstood Native History, and educating the public through applied art and science. One of the stated missions of ANHP is the production of detailed, actionable information, that can be used to advocate for, and protect the San Francisco Bay Area Shellmounds.

    Contents:

    1. What is a Shellmound?
    2. Basic Traits of a Shellmound
    3. Augmented Reality
    4. Available Shellmound Models
    5. Let Us Know How You Use The Shellmound Model!

    What is a shellmound?

    A lot of people wanted to know, “What is a shellmound? What does a shellmound look like? How big were the shell mounds?”

    While one could spend time curating schematics, maps, and historical images…. there are truths which reveal themselves.

    The best way talk about shellmounds is to show them.

    Basic traits of a shellmound….

    1. Shellmounds range anywhere from about 3 to 70 feet tall.
    2. Shellmounds have a diameter of about 10 to 300 feet.
    3. Shellmounds have a distinctive domed shape,
      usually with a pavillion, and a ramp or walk-way down one side.
    4. Each shellmound accounts for hundreds to thousands of Native Americans.
      Around 2,000 people were buried in the Emeryville Shellmound.
    5. Shellmounds are not trash heaps.
    6. Shellmounds are burial grounds.
    7. Shellmounds are sacred burial structures, built by the first occupants of the San Francisco Bay Area.
    8. Over 425 shellmounds existed in the San Francisco Bay Area.
    9. Only a few dozen shellmounds still remain, intact, and undisturbed.

    Augmented Reality

    Feature:
    Alameda Native History Project’s Shellmound Model

    Available Shellmound Models

    There are two Shellmound Models available. They are version 2.5, and 2.6, respectfully.

    Version 2.6 is in .REAL format, which is used with Adobe Aero, a mobile-based Augmented Reality platform.

    Version 2.5 is in USDZ format. Universal Scene Description is used by Pixar (among other companies); and is now a native 3D Object Format for both iOS and Android 3D Object Viewer.

    These shellmound models were created for educational, and research purposes. Commercial use of this model is strictly prohibited.

    When featuring this model, please include the following citation:
    “Shellmound Model created by Gabriel Duncan.”

    Shellmound Model v.2.5(download)
    Android / iOS (.usdz)
    Shellmound Model v.2.6(download)
    Adobe Aero (.real) (in-app)
    Info about Adobe Aero “Adobe Aero Get Started” on the Adobe website.

    Let us know how you use the Shellmound Model!

    Tag your AR experience on Instagram using @AlamedaNativeHistoryProject!

    Send us a note, share your stories via collab@alamedanativehistoryproject.com!

  • Independent Alameda Native History Project Develops First 3D Shellmound Model

    Local Native American-led Research Project Aims to Educate Public, Advocate for Shellmounds

    Click here to skip the article and download the Alameda Native History Project Shellmound Model, made by Gabriel Duncan.

    For the first time ever, an entirely independent research project, led by a Native American descendant, has produced a tangible representation of pre-contact Native American Spirituality and Engineering.

    Shellmounds, up until now, have largely only been talked about as a theoretical object, which “used to exist.” And shellmounds have been used as a tool to gain funding, and political influence.

    As a descendant of California Native Americans, adopted out of my tribe at birth, raised by white people, and growing up in a place like Alameda–which is a “good ole boy” town, and known for it’s white racist, residents, and it’s over-policing of people of color….

    As all of that…

    I needed more than these pretty words and vagaries.

    More than a rock in the middle of Lincoln Park, in Alameda, Commemorating the Ohlone Shellmound the City of Alameda dug up and used to pave Bay Farm Road.

    When public figures speak about shellmounds, they are referred to in terms of what shellmounds symbolize.

    We’re given a rosy, idealized, wash of what life was like in the San Francisco Bay Area before the Spaniards and “White People” came.

    It’s very light on details, but gives us just enough to sort of “dream” of what life was like.

    This is all well and good if you’re not that interested.

    If all you wanted was a simple answer to the question of,

    “What happened to those shellmounds in Emeryville and Alameda?“
    “Where was the shellmound in West Berkeley?“

    But some people want to know what it looked like, really. In the sense of being able to know where things were. Being able to see what kind of plants were growing at that time (some plants and animals have gone extinct in the intervening 300 or so years.)

    Some people would like to see the same attention devoted to Native American History, Research, Preservation, Conservation, and Education that has been devoted to:
    Bodie State Historic Park
    Bodie, California
    • Old Mining Towns
    • Victorian Houses
    • Military Forts and Installations
    • Warships
    • Mount Rushmore
    • Stone Mountain
    • Arlington National Cemetery
    • Foreign Archeology & Anthropology

    We’re entering an era of what could be considered “Salvage Archiving“, or something of the sort.

    Where an impetus should be placed on saving those withered, orphaned pages, plastered to the back of shelves, and in the dark grimy corners of filing cabinets. Getting those pages archived, digitally. Creating new renditions of old data and information, in modern formats. In high-fidelity.

    Why? Because they’re primary sources.

    The last scribbled field notes, and crumpled photographs that are almost lost to history; but which carry the little bits and pieces glossed over by researchers who were never looking for more than statistical data, or a PhD. Or who just hunted for the citation, without bothering to read and comprehend the rest.

    These bits of real world meta- and scrape-data…

    We need our histories, language, and secrets, to help us re-imagine what a De-Colonized Future really looks like. To help us repatriate the ancestors being returned to us from these museums and universities. And we need land back, so we can have a place to bury our ancestors, and let them rest in peace.

    Native American History and Culture was taken away from the First Californians.

    It was cataloged and scattered around the world, to different museums, universities, and private collections. Everything from our oral histories to our ancestors’ bodies are in pieces.

    This is our inheritance.
    Our family property.

    It should not have to take feats of academic, and legal, scholarship to gain access to our own language, history, and the physical bodies of our ancestors.

    But not everybody knows they’re family…

    There was a time in America where white-passing Hispanic people claimed to be White, and light-skinned Native Americans pretended to be Mexican.

    This was because Native Americans who were caught in public, off the reservation, could be subject to arrest–where a white man could “buy an Indian” as a slave–forced on to a nearby reservation, or just killed on the spot.

    Indian Census Roll

    Mexicans and Spaniards were allowed agency, and relative freedom, when compared to the possibility of being criminalized and sold into slavery, or killed.

    So that’s why many Native Americans declared Mexican ancestry, and took Spanish last names, or married into those families: to hide from the terror and racism Native Americans were subjected to by the American Government.

    It wasn’t until recently that people started talking about their abuelitas,

    “I think mentioning something that they were really some part American Indian, or Native American?”

    These people, with surprise ancestry, or “hidden heritage” cannot be discounted. They have been completely oblivious to their own ties to this land, and these shellmounds.

    But, an awakening is happening, the veil of [necessary?] secrecy is finally being lifted.

    This begs to question the fairness of gate-keeping.

    Tuibun Village Reproduction
    Coyote Hills Regional Park
    Fremont, California
    • Shouldn’t the living descendants of these ancestors be given the opportunity to visit, experience, and learn about all of these things?
    • Is it really the role of anyone to deny them their birth rite, or the ability to at least find some solace or peace within themselves; because here is a place where they can pilgrimage to learn about themselves?
    • How can we really expect to know what “rematriation” or “land back” looks like, if we don’t even know what Native Land looks like (outside of vast pictures of forests, and dingy shots of dust-swept reservations?)

    How can we teach ourselves, and each other about what Native Land really is, without being able to visit it, or even talk about what they look like?

    Examples like the diorama of the Tuibun (Ohlone) Village at Coyote Hills Regional Park, in Fremont, California, are invaluable to helping one imagine, envision or just “picture what it was like.”

    There is more than one type of “estranged”, or,
    “dis-enfranchised” Native American….

    Strange word, “dis-enfranchised”.

    There are Native Americans who were adopted, who grew up outside of their communities.

    People who never chose to be separated from their people, and Tribe. People who were never given the opportunity to be reunited. Sometimes forever.

    As a descendant of California Native Americans, adopted out of my tribe at birth, raised by white people, and growing up in a place like Alameda–which is a “good ole boy” town, and known for it’s white racist, residents, and it’s over-policing of people of color….

    As all of that…

    I needed more than these pretty words and vagaries.

    More than a rock in the middle of Lincoln Park, in Alameda, Commemorating the Ohlone Shellmound the City of Alameda dug up and used to pave Bay Farm Road.

    The symbolism of shellmounds is tied to colonization, and landback, and rematriatrion, and gardens.

    But this only uses shellmounds as a strawman, an existential fallacy. Because the argument is only ever over places where shellmounds have been destroyed.

    But what about the other shellmounds?

    Shellmounds still exist in the San Francisco Bay Area

    Every article says the San Francisco Bay Area had at least 425 Shellmounds. But these rely on the recitation of the same, stale facts. The main narrative, and recurring implication, is that, all the shellmounds have been destroyed, and there’s nothing left but three locations in the San Francisco Bay Area:

    • Emery Bay outdoor mall, in Emeryvile, California;
    • Glen Cove, in Vallejo, California; and,
    • Spenger’s Parking Lot, in Berkeley, California….

    Because the mission of the Alameda Native History Project was to discover what happened to the Alameda Shellmounds; and that, of course lead to researching other Shellmound locations, I learned: of these three locations, only the shellmound in Emeryville is the correct location.

    Alameda Native History Project map showing true location and observed (approximate) dimensions of West Berkeley Shellmound.

    Upon closer inspection both Glen Cove and West Berkley Shellmounds exist, or existed about 100 feet away from the locations Corrine Gould has alleged, on average. Which wouldn’t be such a big deal if there weren’t huge protests and millions of dollars spent in legal battles over protecting a thing that wasn’t even there. It’s not even a masked-man fallacy. But it’s close. (Especially in West Berkeley.)

    This brought about frank questions like, How come Corrine Gould is only interested in Shellmounds that are already destroyed? How come her groups aren’t interested in protecting other shellmounds, like the four at San Rafael Rock Quarry? (She went out to Miwok Territory, despite the fact she’s Ohlone and occupied Glen Cove Park, without the permission or endorsement of the real tribes who’s territory Vallejo falls in.)

    Is it just easier to advocate for seizing parking lots? An open space can fit hundreds of protestors, and garner much more attention, when it’s in the middle of a city. Places like outdoor malls, and the center of a shopping district are perfect for garnering public attention. Maybe that’s why more remote mounds in places like Contra Costa and Marin county haven’t been advocated for?

    Regardless of the new questions the research has uncovered, the Alameda Native History Project has a self-proclaimed mission to educate the public about shellmounds, and provide detailed, actionable information for their preservation, and protection.

    As such, this project will continue to produce and release educational and research materials; to bring attention to all San Francisco Bay Area Shellmounds, and advocate for their protection.

    But it’s hard to do that when the leading voice is trying to limit, or stifle the discussion about Shellmounds, to the point of providing incorrect information about their locations.

    So let’s start with this:

    What is a shellmound?

    A lot of people wanted to know, “What is a shellmound? What does a shellmound look like? How big were the shell mounds?”

    And, while one could spend time curating schematics, maps, and historical images there are truths which reveal themselves.

    Basic traits of a shellmound….

    1. Shellmounds range anywhere from about 3 to 70 feet tall.
    2. Shellmounds have a diameter of about 10 to 300 feet.
    3. Shellmounds have a distinctive domed shape,
      usually with a pavillion, and a ramp or walk-way down one side.
    4. Each shellmound accounts for hundreds to thousands of Native Americans.
      Around 2,000 people were buried in the Emeryville Shellmound.
    5. Shellmounds are not trash heaps.
    6. Shellmounds are burial grounds.
    7. Shellmounds are sacred burial structures, built by the first occupants of the San Francisco Bay Area.
    8. Over 425 shellmounds existed in the San Francisco Bay Area.
    9. Only a few dozen shellmounds still remain, intact, and undisturbed.

    ANHP Shellmound Model
    Featured in Augmented-Reality

    Available Shellmound Models

    This video has loud background noise.

    There are two Shellmound Models available. They are version 2.5, and 2.6, respectfully.

    Version 2.6 is in .REAL format, which is used with Adobe Aero, a mobile-based Augmented Reality platform.

    Version 2.5 is in USDZ format. Universal Scene Description is used by Pixar (among other companies); and is now a native 3D Object Format for both iOS and Android 3D Object Viewer.

    These shellmound models were created for educational, and research purposes. Commercial use of this model is strictly prohibited. When featuring this model, please include the following citation:

    “Shellmound Model created by Gabriel Duncan.”

    Shellmound Model v.2.5(download)
    Android / iOS (.usdz)
    Shellmound Model v.2.6(download)
    Adobe Aero (.real) (in-app)
    Info about Adobe Aero “Adobe Aero Get Started” on the Adobe website.

    Let us know how you use the Shellmound Model!

    Tag your AR experience on Instagram using @AlamedaNativeHistoryProject!

    Send us a note, share your stories via collab@alamedanativehistoryproject.com!

  • Zombie: The Incident at Bloody Rock – Three

    Three

    Once the second disc popped out, we shut off the computer and sat in silence.  No more was spoken of the doctor’s experience, or my brother’s lack of bloodlust.  We listened for any sign of movement.

    Clive peeked through the blinds; but he couldn’t see anything.  Dr. Robertson took the point as I cracked the door open.  It was almost pitch black.  I kept my eyes open and tried to adjust to the darkness as I peered out.  The stench was rich.

    I heard something slide against a wall.  It sounded kind of close, but it was muffled.  Then a muffled groan and the rattle of the axe in the break room door.  Those were the only sounds I heard.  Other than that it was so quiet I could hear my heart beat.  Dr. Robertson looked ready when I turned around.  He had a death grip on his suitcase.  I told Clive not to turn on the flashlight unless we absolutely needed it.  I took out the security guard’s nightstick and patted the CD’s in my pocket before sliding out of the door and creeping down the hallway towards the elevators.

    Adrenaline was coursing through my veins.  I expected to run into one of them any second.  I let out a sigh of relief when I saw the elevator was still there, waiting for us.  But that relief quickly faded when I realized someone was standing in it—and she was missing an ear.

    “Take care of her.”  The doctor told me.

    I was about to turn around, about to argue.  I mean, this guy just asked me to kill someone.  Okay, this isn’t a person, I thought, but it was still dangerous.  Plus I was scared, really scared.  It would have been more preferable to just jog down the hall and disappear into the stairwells, on my way to safety.  Then I wouldn’t have to fight that thing and risk having it bite me.  I briefly considered sending Clive in there, as I was positive he could handle the thing.  But then I remembered what Randy said about his brother succumbing to blood lust.  The doctor nudged me out of my train-of-thought.

    “Go on!” He hissed.

    I’d be doing a lot of this if we had bad luck, I told myself.  And if we had good luck, this was the last stop before getting the fuck out of here.  The thought pressed me on as I crept up to the elevator, staying low and hiding along the railings.  I tried to think of all the different ways of getting rid of the woman in the elevator.  I watched her just stand there, nearly lifeless except for the subtle growling sound.

    I could throw her into the light well, I thought.  I could crack her skull with my nightstick.  I wanted to just run up there and smack her in the back of the head with the short side of the side-handled wooden stick.  At least, I thought it was wooden.  I tried my grip on it as I rounded the elevator door and she caught sight of me.  I froze in my tracks, my courage completely diminished.

    It took her a millisecond to charge me; I had to think quickly.  I let her have the first one against the side of her head and it landed with an echoing CRACK!  She fell on her face and I dropped on top of her as she tried to get up.  She struggled to bite my arms as I tried to hold her down, but I couldn’t get the right grip.  So I tried something new.

    The night stick was abandoned as I slammed her head into the floor until I could hear her skull crack and feel it soften like a rotten tomato in my hands.  When the brains started to ooze from her face and wet my hands I let go; my fists clenched and dripping infected blood.  I hoped that I didn’t have any cuts on my hands; and that there wasn’t another one waiting somewhere in the darkness.

    For a few fleeting moments, I took into account that this was someone the doctor used to work with.  That somewhere, out there, this person had a family.  She was collateral damage.  I watched her lifeless body as I caught my breath.  I was aware of Clive and Dr. Robertson watching me.

    “Okay,” I said.

    Clive and Dr. Robertson came into the elevator with me and I was about to pull the emergency stop button when the doctor slapped my hand away from the controls.

    “What the fuck?!”  I asked.

    “All of the buttons are pressed.”  The doctor noted.

    It was true.  The control panel was completely alight.  I’m surprised we didn’t hear her ring the bell.

    “God damn it!”  I slammed the panel.  “Get out.”

    I pushed the emergency stop button in again and watched as the elevator went down and dinged at the next floor.  It was met by a groan.  I was happy that we hadn’t gone on the elevator.  But I was more distressed because I had to wonder if those were the same zombies, or if they were new ones, ones that had come off the elevator perhaps.  The door dinged closed and continued its way down tot he next floor.  This would have been the cafeteria and the offices.  I didn’t hear anything.  I wanted to wait and listen some more, but Clive pulled at my shirt.

    “So what are we going to do now?”  He asked, “Are we going to wait for it to come back?  Or should we just take the stairs?”

    “They’re probably in the stairwells by now.”  I said.

    “I don’t know.”  The doctor said.  “But we need to get down somehow.  We just have to pick the right one.  They can’t be in all of the stairwells.”

    We moseyed down the hallways back to the stairwell by the doctor’s office, on the easterly point of the building. Clive played the brave one, pushing the door open far ahead of him, and taking a sweeping look around the stairwell with his flashlight.  There was one in the corner, on the landing down from us.

    “Close it!” The doctor shouted.

    Clive reached for the door, but I jumped it and slammed it shut for him.  We could hear the thing pounding and screaming on the other side.  I turned to the doctor, completely pissed off that he would have the nerve to shout in an environment where shouting is a very, very bad idea.

    “Shut the fuck up!” I hissed at him.  I felt like slapping him out of terror, “Don’t yell, you idiot!”

    The doctor checked himself and we walked to the western stairwell.  Mind you, the doctor’s office was on the southern wall; which is why I was able to peer out and see the hint of a sunrise.  If this doesn’t work, I thought, we’ll have to walk over to the dark side of the hallway.  I never admitted it to anyone since I was five, but I was deathly afraid of the dark.  And the thought of losing battery power or breaking the flashlight—or of someone running away with it—was terrifying.  … Being abandoned was incomprehensible and the thought left me with a tingly, unavoidable fear.

    We arrived at the other end of the hallway.  I could still hear the one in the other stairwell screaming.  But, there were new voices, of children.  I brushed off a chill as we got into position.  I instructed Clive on where to stand and hold the flashlight and got ready to move in, when I turned to look at the doctor, standing there.  Doctor Robertson looked scared shitless.  He was hugging his briefcase and staring at us wide-eyed.  In his breath I heard a shiver and I wondered if he would run.  He looked like he was in shock.

    “Dr. Robertson,” I addressed him.

    He gave me no response; so I took out my stick and poked him in the briefcase.  “Hey!”

    The doctor snapped out of it and looked at me.

    “Stay with us, okay?” I asked.

    “Sorry,” He said.

    It bumped into one of them, the door, when I opened it.  I still thought of them as people; but not for long.  I wanted to puke—I was so revolted and scared at the same time.  It was a nurse.  Her face was torn almost completely off, except for the spots around her chewed up ears.  One of her eyes hung loosely from its socket.  It whipped around uselessly as she snapped her head toward us and hissed.  I shut the door as quickly as I could, but it got stuck on her fingers, the edges of the door subtly sinking through her flesh like a fork through a bone-tender veal cutlet.  I let out a shriek I couldn’t control.

    “Oh my god!  This is fucking crazy!” I stuttered, as tried to pull the door shut, but she wouldn’t let go.

    “Run!” The doctor squealed. 

    “No!” I shouted.  The thought of them leaving me over one zombie pissed me off.  I mean, this was one zombie, with its fucking hand in the door.  Was that really so fucking scary?  “Stay here!” I told them.  Then I turned back to the nurse and slammed the door on her hand a couple of times, to no avail.

    I was not going to give up and let them in.  I was not going to run away.  If I ran away, they could still get me.  But if I took any longer, Clive and the Doctor would leave me alone.  And this was just one fucking zombie.  I’d already taken three fucking zombies.  So fuck this.

    “You’re fucking dead!” I screamed; as I shoved my shoulder against the door, using all of my body weight.  It slammed against her like a freight train, and I almost fell over the rails.  When I turned, she was stunned, but beginning to get up.  I slipped behind her and wrapped my arms around her neck and pulled, and twisted up as hard as I could.  I swear I felt the vertebrae pop against my chest.  When I was done, I threw her over the railing.  Then I closed the door, thumping against it with a huff.

    “Did you see that?”  I asked.

    “Yeah, you totally got her!” Clive exclaimed.

    The doctor looked at me warily.

    “Have you ever done that before?”  He asked.

    “Don’t worry,” I told him, “If you were a zombie, I’d do it to you, too.”

    He went deadpan.

    .

    Feeling empowered, I marched over to the dark side and waited for the others to catch up.  They looked like they had finally become hyper-aware of their surroundings.  The doctor was staying away from Clive, I noticed, at least two arm lengths if he could.

    “Are you alright, doctor?” I asked him.

    The doctor looked at me and nodded vigorously.

    “Do you want to try a door now?”

    “No thank you,” he said, “I value my—I mean, I don’t think I’m quite as brave as you are.”

    “Turn off the light, Clive,” I said.

    When he did, I opened the door as quietly as I could and listened.  There was some shuffling.  It sounded above us, not very close.  I closed the door, and decided to see what the other stairwell was like.

    “What was wrong with that one?” The doctor asked.


    “Nothing,” I told him, “Except for maybe a zombie or two.”

    As we approached the final stairwell, the doctor strode passed us.  He walked over to the door in a determined kind of way.  He rolled his sleeves up and said,

    “Let me do it this time.”

    When the door opened, there was a crowd gathered on the landing.  It was kind of ironic, if one stopped to think about it.  The doctor ran away immediately, he disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the sounds of his footsteps behind.  We were left there, at the open door, staring at a grip of zombies that were now staring at us.  I wanted to scream.  The thought had struck me to stay still and hope they tore after the doctor; but judging from their unwavering gazes, they wouldn’t.

    “C’mon!” I screamed, taking Clive’s hand and pulling him towards the other stairwell.  I hoped that once we go through the door, they wouldn’t be able to follow.  But I knew they would be ale to, with the push-bar design of the damn things.  I knew why they couldn’t leave the stairwells, the doors had handles.  It was so simple.  But it never occurred to any of us.

    I filed the thought away for later as we fled, the door growing closer as the hungry growls of those things got louder.  I could hear their feet thumping behind us.  I could smell them.  It was putrid, like a mixture of spoiled milk and bad meat.  My bowels gave a jolt.  I had to take a shit.

    …In all of the places….

    Clive crashed into the door and turned, waiting for me to catch up.  “Hurry!” He yelled; and I jumped into the stairwell.  We both slammed the door shut and put our weights against it.  When they hit, the door almost shook out of its hinges.  The impact reverberated through the concrete steps that we stood on and echoed through the whole stairwell just like a dinner bell.

    As I stood with my back against the door and my feet on the railings, I noticed the flashlight meant little.  It was pitch black.  I tried to listen, but the sound of those things on the other side drowned out even my own heartbeat.  I clenched my teeth and growled, pushing the door against its sill.  I didn’t know if I could take this much longer.  

    “There’s another one in here,” I breathed.

    “I know,” Clive said.

    “How do you–” I asked, but already, I could see the outline of someone a half flight up from us.  If we let the door open, I thought, it might keep them long enough for us to sprint the four floors down to the lobby.  Then what?  Do we call the Red Cross or something?

    “Clive,” I said, “I’m gonna let door open.  They’ll probably run straight into the railings.  We can beat them running down the stairs.  What do you say?”

    “Okay,” Clive said, casting the torch down the winding stairwell.

    “Do you see anything?” I asked.

    “No.” He replied.

    Clive did the countdown and I sprung off the railings and pushed against the door.  It came back faster than I thought it would and found my ankle.  Then I was falling.  I tried not to land on my face and got up.  They were screaming at each other, confused at the door.  They don’t see me, I thought.  But they will when I get up…

    I pushed myself up as quickly as I could.  When I put weight on my ankle I almost collapsed.  The pain was intense.  But I had to go, and so I grabbed both sides of the railing and heaved myself down the stairs, skipping entire flights and landing on one leg as best as I could.  I can worry about my ankle later.   I have to get down the stairs now.   Clive’s flashlight wasn’t getting any closer.

    “Why the fuck are you chasing us?”  I yelled at them.  But all I got were more feral screams.

    When I caught up with Clive, he was already on the first floor, waiting for me.  There was a light coming out from under the first floor door.  It was unmistakable because the rest of the doors were dark.  I hurled myself through it without thinking.  Clive shut it.  I was blinded when the door swung open and turned around, landing on my back.

    “Close it!” I shouted.

    “Look!” He said.  The handles were on the outside of the door and the push-bars were on the inside.

    “Do you know your way?” I asked him.

    “No,” He replied.

    We could hear screaming again, coming from behind us.

    “They can get out,” I told him.

    “Fuck,” Clive muttered and offered me his hand.

    The pain in my ankle had de-escalated from unbearable to throbbing.  It wasn’t broken, but I was looking forward to when I’d be able to sit.  Or sleep….  I wondered if Dad was still outside.  As I heard the stairwell door slam open I wondered if the zombies had struck outside yet.  A sudden fear gripped me because I could imagine the dead bodies and screaming.  If they had gotten out to the living in the tents and RV’s, it would be almost impossible to get out alive.  Deep inside, there was a part of me ready to reap vengeance on anything that came near Clive or my dad.

    For now there was running down a corridor of all white.  No signs anywhere.  I could hear them screaming behind us.  I followed Clive right, down a smaller corridor.  There was a green exit sign ten feet away.  Just in time, I thought.  When Clive tried the door, the handle didn’t move.

    “Shit!” I exclaimed.  I could hear the patter of their feet coming towards us.  “What are we going to do?”

    “I don’t know,” Clive replied.

    So I took off running down the hallway until I reached what looked like a loading dock.  On the left side of the hallway was a steel rolling door, and on the right were two double doors that led into what looked like a warehouse.  I knew this was the same loading dock we had set up camp in view of.  Five hundred feet from this door was my tent.  If only we can find the exit.  Clive pushed on the double doors and they opened.

    “C’mon, Kenny!”  Clive hollered.

    I slipped into the door with him and we took off towards the first door we saw, across the room.  Behind us, we could hear the thunder of feet stop outside of the door we went in.  I didn’t know how they found us.  I slammed through the door and took off right, down whatever hallway I was in.  I kept pushing on; completely unaware of what was behind me, or what was going on around me.  I took the next door and bounded through a room full of cubicles.  A look over my shoulder confirmed Clive was right behind me.

    Finally, at the end of the room, past the overturned chairs and spilt coffee mugs (somebody left in a hurry); there was a door with a green exit sign.  The door led into the promenade that the elevators serve.  I could see several bodies lining the floor.  We came to a dead stop.  Mind the pun.  I motioned for Clive to be quiet as we tip-toed over suspiciously lifeless bodies.  I could see mucus and brain spilling out of their ears like chicken soup.  In the middle of them all was Rodney, eyes wide open, mouth agape like so many dead squirrels I’d seen on the road, rigor mortised into their last moments.  His body looked worse than I remembered….

    I hadn’t even noticed the screaming had stopped.  Either they’d lost us, or had decided to chase after some other poor dumb bastard.  Almost on cue, I heard the doctor’s voice above me.

    “Kenny!”  He shouted.

    I looked up.  He was standing on the balcony four floors up.

    “Don’t forget my research,” He told me, “You must put it in the proper hands.”

    I felt like asking him why he was still up there, what he thought he’d gain by hiding—waiting for them to come and get him.  But I figured he’d already made his choice, and he didn’t need me to risk my life to convince him otherwise.

    The doctor was still talking, “I got a hold of someone… They’re supposed to be coming soon.  They told me to stay here.”

    I looked up at him, surprised he’d been able to reach anyone.

    The doctor chuckled, a relieved, surprised sort of chuckle.  “The phone just rang.”  He laughed now.  “Somehow they knew.  Maybe Bart reached help!  Maybe we’ll see each other again, after all.  I’m hiding in my office and waiting for them to arrive.”

    Clive tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at one of them crawling towards us; blood coming out of its mouth.  It was less horrifying when they weren’t screaming and tearing off after you any chance they got.  This one was so defenseless.

    “You’ll be one of the first specimens,” I told it.

    When I looked back up, the doctor was gone.  I wanted to say something more to him.  But the door was there . . . only a few feet away.   The thing on the floor had made little progress.  Now that we were in the home stretch, Clive and I took our time walking out of the building, taking care not to be seen by any more of them.  I tried the phones briefly, before we left, but they were all busy.  How did they call in, I wondered, and who were they?

    There was no one in the halls.  No bodies or blood stains anywhere near the door.  Right next to the door was a red fire alarm switch.  I pulled it and dashed out the door.

    Clive whooped and hollered as we made our way to the rear of the building.  Everything looked normal.  The sun was making its way up over the horizon.  A lot of people had left already, probably dejected by what had happened.  The news crews were gone, probably in their cushy hotels, waiting until the dinner ceremony tonight.  The RV parked next to our camp was still there—and so were our tents.

    “Dad?!”  Clive called out.

    My dad’s tear-streaked face popped out of the tent.  He looked at me, and then Clive.  I took the time to look at Clive under this new light.  He didn’t look that bad.  His toes were blue, though, and his veins were poking out, but considering that I was out of breath and still frightened as hell….

    Dad hugged Clive.

    “I never thought you were going to make it out!”  He exclaimed.  “Did the nurses let you out?  What did Doctor Robertson say?”

    Clive and I exchanged nervous looks as Dad continued, “Where are Avery and Rodney?”

    “Ummm…” Was all that Clive could say.

    “Dad,” I started, “Rodney and Avery are dead.”

    “What?” Dad opened his mouth to say something but he closed it, a confused look on his face. “How…. How did Rodney die?  What happened?”

    George, Rodney and Avery’s dad had seen us come running.  He was on his way over.  He probably wanted to know what was happening, how come Clive and I were outside and no one else.

    “Did you see anyone leave the hospital?”  I asked.

    “No, well, there was one person, a kid—two, actually.  He was wearing a black shirt and ran straight into the woods.  Another kid in a hospital gown was running not far behind.”  

    Clive and I shared a look.  Wasn’t that the kid with the medical weed?

    Dad looked at us seriously then, “What’s goin’ on, Kenny?”

    “Something went wrong,” I told him, “I don’t know what.  But, everyone died, and then they came back.  They’re like zombies now, dad.  They’re trying to eat anyone in sight.  I know you’re probably not going to believe this, so just listen.  Everyone in there is dead.  The only people we saw alive were the doctor and Rodney.”

    “What do you mean, Zombies?”  Dad asked, “You’re saying . . . Clive’s a zombie, too?”

    “Who’s a zombie?”  George asked.  He had a huge grin on his face.  “Not Clive I hope.  Did you two see Rodney and Avery in there?”

    We just nodded.

    “How are they?”  He asked.  “I haven’t heard from Rodney in hours.  Is Avery okay?”

    I couldn’t believe how isolated the hospital really was even; from five-hundred feet away.  Our cell phones didn’t even work.  We had to use someone’s Nextel to call the hospital.  But that was hours ago.

    “They’re sleeping.”  Clive lied.

    “Oh,” George looked back to the hospital.  We could see the fire alarm lights blinking in the corridors.  “Are those fire alarms?”

    “I don’t know.”  I turned to dad and whispered as softly as I could, “We need to go outside and contact the CDC or something.”

    George chit-chatted with Clive, asking about how it was in the hospital and if they treated him right; meanwhile I told Dad about walking into the trashed AIDS wing and finding Clive cowering in a storage closet.  I said I would tell him more, but we had to go now; or I would leave them behind.  George asked about the kids who died.  And I told dad about following Clive up to Avery’s floor and finding Rodney, eaten alive but still talking.  Dad took in all the gory details, trying to keep his reactions in check.

    I told him that I saw Doctor Robertson and I showed Dad the discs that he burnt for me.  Dad took them and looked at them carefully.  He handed them back and I told him that I didn’t want to see him get bit, or the rest of what come next if people went inside.

    As low as I could I said, “We have to leave now.  Before it’s too late.”

    Clive was good at side-stepping and stretching the truth, but I could tell he was being stretched too far.  Dad just stared at us thoughtfully, probably trying to weigh the truth of my statements.  Normally, I was known as a prankster, so I forgave him for waiting so long to high-tail it out of there, but I could feel the stench clinging to my skin.

    “Were your eyes always blue?”  George asked.

    “N–” Dad tried to answer.

    But I interrupted him.  That’s when I saw something click in Dads eyes; like it all sunk in.

    “Okay,” Dad said, “We’re going, George.”

    “You should come, too, George.”  I told him, “It isn’t safe.”

    Soon, I thought, the fire engines and paramedics would come.  Hopefully some armed police officers, too.  Firemen and paramedics wouldn’t be able to stop anything.  The whole place needs to be leveled, I thought, they should just call in the air force and be done with it.  I should have killed Clive and left him there.  But he’s still my brother.  I didn’t understand why he wasn’t like the others.

    “Leave?”  George asked, “Why?”

    He cast another glance at the hospital and I could see the realization in his eyes: they were fire alarms.  George turned from us and started walking to the hospital.

    “Don’t go in there, George.”  Dad said, “We’re lucky to see these boys alive.”

    “How dare you tell me what to do!”  George looked at us accusingly, like we were in on something he wasn’t told about.

    “George, it’s dangerous in there.”  Dad said, “Come here and let’s have a talk.”

    George followed him to the stove.  Dad started to pour out the coffee pot.  I looked around and noticed a few groups of people watching us.  Some of them were wandering towards the hospital.  I could hear people asking what was happening.

    “You shouldn’t have pulled the fire alarm, Kenny,” Clive said.

    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little blur of movement.  A woman was dashing towards the hospital.  The murmurs grew louder until it broke.

    “Oh my god, the fire alarms!” I heard a woman scream.

    Right then, right when everyone started to panic, I realized I should have just left the damned place as it was; because they all started running towards it.

    Against all reason, I assumed any mother or father would try to save their child from a burning building.  But would they do it even though their child was dead?  Some people would probably try to save the body.  Convincing anyone seemed beyond reason; well beyond my dad.  But he had his sons.  If there were a doctor in the house, they would believe me then.  I’m sure something in the doctor’s files would cinch it, too.  But what was I gonna do, pull a megaphone out of my ass and tell them?  They’d call me a lunatic.  Besides, my ankle was killing me.

    I could already see them walking into the hospital, finding Rodney lying on the floor in the throes of rigor mortis.  George didn’t need to see that.  I could imagine a person trying to help in vain that one who was on the floor.  Even after they started to bite, I was sure they would continue, ignorant to their impending fate.  I could just imagine the screaming, terrified people running away from the building.  They would be trying to save themselves by clogging the road and escaping.  But all they would do was spread it.  The idea of quarantine was antiquated, superfluous.  I wondered if they would die before they came back, too, or if they would end up like Rodney and Clive.

    In stark contrast to the adults, the kids seemed to hold some form of higher thought.  It seemed they could track and could speak.  Although none of them spoke so much as Clive when they caught sight of fresh food—if they even needed food.  I wondered if they’d be smart enough to play possum, or if they would simply turn into the slobbering blood thirsty things I was so familiar with.  I didn’t have any more energy to run.  I had to sleep.

    “Dad,” I said.  “We need to go now.  It’s gonna start spreading as soon as they find the first one.”

    “What do you mean?”  George asked.

    “Someone’s gonna get bitten, someone might get scratched.”  I said, “I don’t know how long it takes, but someone is going to turn, and they’ll want to feed.  Imagine all these people trying to get in their cars and drive away at the same time.  If we don’t leave now, we may not get another chance.”

    “Bitten…” George finally said.  His voice carried a cold realization to it.

    “How come Clive…” He began to ask.  But he’d put it together.  He looked at us like we had AIDS.  Pardon the pun.  He looked at us like we would eat him at any moment.

    “Just him,” I said, trying to ease the scrutiny.

    George nodded and cast a sideways glance at my brother.  Dad’s expression was one of disbelief.

    “How come he isn’t…trying to eat someone?”  George asked.

    “I don’t know,” I told him.  “But he hasn’t tried yet.”

    “When we found Rodney,” Clive said, “He was like me.  He could talk….  He told us what happened.”

    “We were going to all get out together,” I said.

    “But then he turned on us.”  Clive finished.

    “Where is he?”  George asked.

    “Right next to the elevators.”  I told him.  “But you don’t want to see him.  Or Avery.”

    “God…  What happened to Avery?”  George asked.

    “He went crazy,” Clive said, “He tried to protect Rodney; but he got too excited and started biting everyone…”

    George furrowed his eyebrow.  I could see the effort it took for him to look neutral.  But there was a glint to his eyes that said something different.

    “But Avery didn’t get sick….” George said, “He was just supposed to be in there for observation.”

    “He did get sick,” I said.  I added, “We saw Doctor Robertson, too.  But he didn’t want to come with us.  He was too scared.  Doctor Robertson told us what happened with everyone.  He even gave me this disc to bring to the CDC.”

    I pulled out a disc, some of the most concrete proof of what happened inside; aside from the blood, which both Dad and George neglected to comment on  All of a sudden we heard screaming from the hospital; it sounded like they all let it out at once.  People came bolting out of the building.

    A woman was running behind them, covered in blood screaming, “HELP!”

    “Oh my god,” I heard someone scream, “Somebody call an ambulance!”

    People ran towards her; I watched, numbly, as she collapsed.  And I knew then, it was time to go.

    “Daaad!” Clive said.  He pulled on dad’s shirt, hard.  “We have to go!!”

    “C’mon, George,” I said, “Come with us if you want to live.”

    “But what about Avery?”  He asked.

    “He’s fucking dead, okay?  He’s dead.  There are people in there who murdered him.  And they’ll murder us, too.”  I said.  “Get a fucking move on!”

    I don’t know why I said it like that, but it worked.  I told him to bring his own truck, and then ran over and started to pull the stakes on our tent.  One might wonder why we bothered to bring anything with us.  I don’t know.  Maybe it was just because we were supposed to take it with us.  Because we were used to doing that before we left.  It didn’t take any direction.  Not a word was said.  It only took a minute.

    I watched the hospital as I rolled the tent, still with the sleeping bags inside, and got it ready to move.   Clive tossed in the pots and pans through the open gate, while Dad folded the table and put it inside.  Then he helped me throw the tent in the back.  That was it.

    We exchanged cell phone numbers with him and made plans to meet at the ghost town next to the airport.  I jumped in the back seat, just in case Clive somehow found his appetite, and we tore off down the service road leading into town.  Sitting felt so good.

    Dad was speeding, hitting fifty on a road we first took at forty; the paved road that ran for about a mile, and stopped at the gates.  I tried to call 911 as I bounced around in the back, but I didn’t get any cell phone service.  Luckily, my GPS service was still working.  So I searched for the nearest CDC and Environmental Health offices and saved the numbers for when we had service.  George was still behind us when I looked back, good.

    Just in front of wrought iron, we saw them: the kid in the hospital gown; and the kid with the black shirt.

    “Those are the guys you smoked with last night!”  Clive exclaimed.

    I looked on in disbelief.  It looked like they were making out or something.  But the kid was eating the guy in the black shirt.  His eyes were blank, but he still had that terrified look.  As we came closer, the kid stood up and screamed at us.  We were going too fast to hear and I couldn’t read his lips.  As we passed, he charged the truck and launched himself into the side of it.

    He landed with a huge thump.  I almost thought we ran him over until we heard the unmistakable sound off the kid hitting the hood of George’s truck.  It sounded just like a deer getting hit by a car.  I whipped around to look behind us.

    I could see the dust rising from where the kid hit the dirt, George’s truck fishtailing.  Poor dumb bastard probably slammed on his brakes.  I watched the truck perform one, two flips and see-saw to a stop on its back, in the ditch.  Dad stopped.  We all looked back as the dust cloud washed over us, our visibility dropping rapidly.  Soon, we were overtaken by the cloud of dust.

    “What do we do?”  Clive asked.

    “Umm. . .” Dad said.

    “Do you think they’re dead?”  I asked.

    Dad put the truck into reverse and we backed our way into the fog.  We could smell the burning oil before we could see anything else.  When we’d cut through the dust we could not have been more than twenty feet away.  The truck was on its side.  Its underbelly was exposed to us, and we could clearly see the gasoline pouring out of its breached tank, oil dripping over and around the engine block.  The front of the vehicle was smoking and there was just a hint of fire from underneath it.

    Dad put it back in drive before any of us could say anything; and we rode away from it a little bit, just as the blaze flared up and we heard a loud pop.

    “Let’s go.”  Clive said.

    And we did.  I didn’t want to watch the rest.  Whether or not the kid died didn’t matter.  George was the only one left, as far as I was concerned.  The last one. . .  And it was disheartening to know there was nothing we could do.

    My clothes were disgusting, and they smelled like shit.  I decided to crawl into the back and change them.

  • Alternatives to Paying Shuumi (Sogorea Te’s “Land Tax”)

    Acknowledging our occupation of Native Land; and the way we benefit from Mission Enslavement of Native Americans, the enslavement of people we know as African-American, and the California Genocide is not this easy.

    The Sins of Colonialism can not be washed away with more blood money.

    Direct investment in the community is what’s needed, instead.

    Why this sudden change of heart?

    (more…)