There's always a first post, post. This is it. My first post.

I will be using post pages to share:

• Articles
• Essays
• Updates
• Stories

And other things of interest. Re-posting articles from other sources, sharing news from Native America, and around the world. Rants. (That should have been in the list.)

Anyway, this website is still under development. I'm working on it section-by-section.

I'm just glad I have most of the content created. Most of the work right now is on curation. Once I get the structure of the website, menus, and pop-up configured, I'll go live. But, for now, I'm just gonna make a couple of blogs posts to let you all know this project is still being worked on; and more updates will come soon.

Tentative ETA: December 24, 2020.

Been working on moving all of this website from the Google Sites, over to AlamedaNativeArt.com. One of the largest components of the Alameda Native History Project apparatus is the Maps Section.

There were certain limitations to using google maps. Various licensing considerations that became really complicated; and super expensive. I had found OpenStreeMaps when I was doing initial research into the best ways to display the data I've found. But... it seemed too complicated to try and configure in the time limit I was working with.

But now that I've had an abundance of time, due to COVID-19, I've been able to think about this project a little more.

The first thing I had to do was create the website. Like I said, I'm working section-by-section. Creating and tailoring the content I have to fit here. I am doing my best to not make the experience overwhelming. But... You have to understand, I have a lot of content.

So much content that I'm going to use a Wiki for reference, for the maps, and probably for other things on this site, too. It will be a good tool to keep track of my own citations, as well. Which are going to be kept as plain-english as possible.

Anyway, I stopped to write this. I'm in between having completed the maps, and starting the Wiki.

I might get some caffeine; and food. And toilet paper, or something. All of California is on lockdown, now. I actually think states and federal governments should be able to declare some form of "Martial Law" to stop a disease from spreading like wildfire. I think the 85% FULL trigger to lockdown should have been somewhere between 35-55%. It's in the public interest to restrict the freedoms of citizens, to prevent them from spreading the disease.

Some of you never played Plague Inc., and it shows.

Aside from this being my first post in this category; this is to announce that I've finished working on the Alameda Shellmounds project pages, of the Alameda Native History Project section of this website. Woo!

The history of the Alameda Shellmounds, presented with research, and excerpts of historical sources, and some interpretation. The project is being presented on 3 pages. So, get your reading glasses, ready. I'll also be making another page in the ANHP section specifically to showcase ANHP maps. Historical maps can be seen in the Alameda Native History Project Wiki.

More to come. Stay tuned.

First post. Necessary to lock down the links to this section.

I'm going to use the blog entries to write travel essays about my Survey of the East Bay Regional Parks; posts will include pictures. I think I'm going to use galleries to present the Top 10 Pictures of each park.

Stay tuned.

First post. And a definition of the concept of an, "Urban Reservation".

The Urban Reservation, to me, is a place that can be quickly defined as analogous to the American idea of the "ghetto". The distribution of ethnicity is unimportant; the defining point is that these areas do not offer enough food [external], jobs, or services (ranging from water & sanitation, to healthcare.)

Let's be clear, though: American Ghettos were created by Redlining, Segregation, "Black-listing", White Flight, just... rampant racism.

Here's an article from EconoFact.org, "Concentrated Poverty and the Disconnect Between Jobs and Workers", which is pretty detailed. I pulled together a couple of other articles, and linked them at the bottom of this page.

Other forms of ghettos exist. Some rural areas closely match the defining properties of ghettos. The only difference is that these areas suffer because of low population density--State and Federal funding is usually allotted by population; therefore, less populated areas receive less funding. Smaller populations also do not attract large corporations. Industry in rural areas is generally mineral, and agriculturally based; and introduces pollutants, and negatively impacts community and environmental health in myriad ways.

This is an article called, "Prisons and the Rural Ghetto". It's included because this specifically looks at prisons built in rural areas.

Prisons are seen as the Silver Bullet for the issue of Population vs. Funding. The idea of using incarcerated people for both their labor to create and sell goods; but also their bodies, as legislative weight is not dissimilar to slavery. It's not.

Mineral-based industry usually involves the "boom" and "bust" cycle: an intense period of high production, lots of jobs, housing, and services being built to accommodate a larger population.... And then, overnight, the mine shuts down, well dries up, and everyone leaves. Just like the inner cities--with factories, power plants, and other industrial facilities and complexes.

Detroit, Chicago, East Oakland. All leveled by the loss of industry. Citizens basically stranded in a desert. Food desert [external]. Job desert. Sometimes the land is so rotten, it basically is a desert.

Historical Indian Reservations were the original Concentration Camps.

Land where Native American people were forced into captivity; they were not allowed to leave that space. In the same way that white people hunted Escaped Slaves, they hunted Indians "Off The Reservation".

Many times, there were laws in place, that allowed Native Americans to be put in Debtor's Prisons, and forced to work, as Slaves. This could be done by any white person, as a right. This Custodial System was codified in the mid 1800's, around when the Office of Indian Affairs was created; the Indian Wars; and the United States government openly encouraged killing as many Native Americans as possible. [Gold Chains: The Hidden History of Slavery in California; Northern California ACLU.]

Today, people think we all get this magical "Casino Money"; and that's not the case.

Today, many reservations are like the inner city ghettos, just set in a rural location. Specifically: no jobs, food, or services, with moderate density for the area provided. The U.S. Government did promise to provide sanitation and water services; some tribes were also promised electricity. But these are Treaty Promises; which still haven't been delivered upon, more than 200 years later.

Right; so what's the "Urban Reservation"?

It could literally be super-developed, urbanized reservations. Like the larger tribes we all know about. That's not what I mean, though.

I'm talking about the Native American descendants living here, in the city, separated from language, history, culture and tradition. Literally the living, breathing product of the United State's ultimate objective: the complete destruction of Native American culture, identity and--most importantly--blood. (It's been referred to a post-apocalyptic existence.) The Urban Reservation is the ghetto. It's another name for a place that is largely ignored, and profoundly misunderstood. Another place where organizing, and self-determination is crucial.

The Urban Reservation a lot of times feels like another place we're trapped in. But it's a place where we're really not as alone as we may think.

The Urban Reservation is a place where we come together in Inter-Tribal Friendship Houses; to be together; to share what we do know; speak our languages with others. We hold Pow-Wows to gather all our relations around the drums; to dance; and to sing. (To eat Indian Tacos!) To feel the earth-beat, and create a space where we can be free, relax; just enjoy being together.

The Urban Reservation is built on the shadows of Indian Land. It's a place where the whispers of the past still carry on the wind. A place where we can feel the echoes of our ancestors, but where we can't see our signs of life. It's this searching that leads us to one another. That draws us to strange places, for no reason. That makes us follow the sound of the drums.

A Note on Isolation:

Quarantine Dance Specials 2020, a FaceBook Group, has been going for 9 months! Since the beginning of the COVID-19 declared emergencies.

Upcoming digital bay area events:

BAAIT-S 10th Anniversary Powwow (Virtual)
February 2-6 2021

Links:

Usage of the term "Ghetto"

How America's Ugly History of Segregation Changed the Meaning of the Word 'Ghetto'; Daniel B. Schwartz; Time; 24-September

Urban Reservation

How to Survive an Apocalypse and Keep Dreaming: As Native people, we have inherited an audacious vision.; Julian Brave Noisecat; The Nation; 2-June 2020.

American Indian Urban Relocation; National Archives: Educator Resources; last reviewed 15-August 2016

Most Native Americans live in cities, not reservations. Here are their stories; Joe Whittle; The Guardian; 4-September 2017

The Plight of Native Americans on the ‘Urban Reservation’ : Los Angeles Indians Express Concern Over Growing Discrimination at Bell Gardens Hearing; Lin Simross; Los Angeles Times; 16-April 1986

Food Desert

"Food Inequality in America: What Living in A 'Food Desert' Looks Like"; Lisa Jubilee; LivingProofNYC.com; 19-June 2020

American Ghettos

Concentrated Poverty and the Disconnect Between Jobs and Workers; David Neumark, U.C. Irvine; EconoFact.org; 22-January 2019

Are Job Candidates Still Being Penalized For Having ‘Ghetto’ Names?; Janice Gassam Asare; Forbes; 20-February 2020

A 'Forgotten History' Of How The U.S. Government Segregated America; Terry Gross; Fresh Air; National Public Radio; 3-May 2017

Rural Ghettos

Prisons and the Rural Ghetto; John Major Eason; Dissent Magazine; Fall 2019

Native American Slavery -- Custodial System

Gold Chains: The Hidden History of Slavery in California; Northern California ACLU

Welcome. This is the first part of a series written by Gabriel Duncan.

Welcome. Haunted Alameda contains a collections of recollections, of growing up on the Alameda Indian Burial Mounds. And other, strange encounters.

YES!! I finally finished working on most of this site. I think there might be a couple of buttons that don't point to anything. (Please let me know when you find them.) But the main, navigational things, all connect. Victory!

And this is running on a content-delivery network, so it should be reasonably fast. Some servers are probably still caching.

This website is optimized for Desktop and Mobile views. I really tried to make sure this looks good on a cell phone. And that it's easy to navigate.

Stuff I still have to do:

East Bay Parks

• Write Mission Peak article;
• Start creating Park Galleries, and,
• Park write-ups;
• Create a production and release schedule for these articles -- probably weekly.

Photography

• Flesh out both sections, in general;
• Add more Urban Photography.

Art

• Add Handmade Art section;
• Update links from Etsy to Handmade Art section.

Writing

• Haunted Alameda - Add decent Introduction.
• Zombie: The Incident at Bloody Rock - Make some teaser stuff.
• Generally create a production and release schedule for both series.

Stay tuned. There's more coming soon!

Check out the article on Curbed SF to find out more.

Publishing Notes

Originally posted to a Google blog called "Gabriel Duncan's Zombie", in 2011; which was re-syndicated from my original websites LonelyOcean.co.uk; and LonelyOcean.net [check the WayBack Machine]. I know that this story was written in 2006, finished and published shortly before the release of the film adaption of Richard Matheson's book, I Am Legend.

I know it's important to distinguish my work, Zombie: The Incident at Bloody Rock, from other works. But, the book I Am Legend, and the movie, "I Am Legend", are important to distinguish from each other because:

1. The book, I Am Legend was a racist white man's response to Integration; the basis for the idea of "White Flight"; and he called all the zombies "vampire n-word's".
2. "I Am Legend", the movie, uses the premise of HIV being re-engineered to cure cancer by replacing malfunctioning cells with healthy cells, in some sort of CRISPR-esque way; oh yeah, and the main character is an African-American (Black) U.S. Army Lieutenant Colonel, and a Virologist--which is a far cry from the racist white guy hiding in his house, and performing mideval experiments to discover the best way to kill these .... vampire n-words. [What the hell. Seriously, the racism was barbaric. But, *spoilers* the main charecter in Matheson's book was ultimately tried and executed for crimes against new humanity. ...Which is sort of how the movie ends.... Sort of. That's why the ending is a little weak, with the outro monologue. Sorry, my opinion.]

Zombie: The Incident at Bloody Rock

This is a story about the cure for the Human Immunodeficiency Virus; coupled with a mysterious enzymatic (bioenhancer) package, which became the catalyst for a zombie apocalypse. It's got all the trappings of legit psuedo-science; plus some dark-corporate-money influence!

This story is written from the view point of someone who watches his brother become one of the first people to receive the Miracle Cure. This story takes place at a remote Children's Research Hospital, in Northern California; on the eve of the roll-out of the Miracle Cure. It's all so promising. So hopeful. Until the kids start getting sick.

This is the first of a series of at least three parts.

The second part is being written now. Third part is already outlined.

Some things I want to note:

1. These zombies are re-animated through an anaerobic, chemical-electrical process that somehow leverages the components of the body for fuel, in an ultimately degenerative process.
2. The idea of using a re-programmed RNA virus made the most sense. The other possible candidate was a prion-type genetic mutation.
3. This idea has a twist:
   • People who were previously infected with HIV seem to regain most of their higher brain function.
   • Those who are not infected with HIV-1 or HIV-2 become the most basic, hyper-violent version of zombies.
4. The primary influence behind this variant of Zombie Disease is the idea of augmentation. Something I've seen in the Resident Evil universe, specifically the series of books by S.D. Perry. And even Borg maturation chambers, to a certain extent.
5. The book Medical Jurisprudence, Forensic medicine and Toxicology. Vol. 1, by Becker et al. was my main source material for the matters of death and dying; and, of course, Stiff: the curious lives of human cadavers, by Mary Roach.

Anyway. That was the brief introduction to the universe of what's officially known as Gabriel Duncan's "Zombie".

Stay tuned for Chapter 1.

Growing up on Court Street, in Alameda, I found a large bone. It looked like a vertebrae. It was laying in the dirt, underneath the deck, in the backyard.

My parents told me it was a cow bone; something that the owners of the house before left behind. Or their dog. --Or it was their dog.

But it was large--like I said--but not "cow-bone large"....

I grew up experiencing a lot of strange things in my house. But, my experiences weren't isolated to that location. My parents usually shined me on. Didn't want to talk about it. Throughout my life, I continued to experience things.

When I was in my 20's, walking down the hallway to my room, from the bathroom:

I saw the shadow of a person.

It was leaning over the large armoire we kept the linens, and table decorations in. It was looking into the big mirror running the length of the table top.

I noticed it like you notice someone in the bar after close. Or wandering around the office complex after hours.

From a distance, it could have been some errant shadow cast from an indeterminate source. A mote cloud.

But--it's true, that--as I got closer, the figure only appeared more solid.

The porch light was shining through the glass above the front door. So the scene was not as dark as one would expect.

There were no walls in between us. So I watched it. Expecting it to disappear in the next blink. But the shadow only grew bolder.

As I walked around the dinner table, and turned down the hallway, to my intended destination; the figure remained.

As I closed the 25 feet between us, I noted a few things:

1. The porch light is not visible through this object.
2. The object really is person-shaped; and,
3. It is really leaning against the armoire, and looking in the mirror.
4. It hasn't moved at all this whole time.
5. This doesn't seem physically possible.
6. This is really strange.

Within 6 feet, I began to get a physical sense that this nondescript, humanoid, shadow actually had mass. The way that you feel when you can tell that someone is there. Next to you, in the same room. Without you seeing them, and without them announcing themselves. It works for objects, too. But it's strongest with living things. Physical presence. It had physical presence.

At this point, I had to make a decision:

Do I walk through this thing?

This thing, which had only shown itself as more solid, and more real, with every step? What if it is a ghost, and not just ... a human-shaped shadow, with physical presence? Trying to walk through it just seems rude, somehow. And freaking out seems like it would only draw attention to myself. Nope.

Do I walk around it?

I was committed to going down the hallway, at this point, I couldn't very well just turn around, could I? Could I?

I would probably end up running. And there was no where to run to. What would I be running from, anyway?

What if this is some kind of repeating event? Or residual energy? What if all of the people who ever leaned over that armoire, and looked in their reflection--right there--formed this?

The hallway wasn't wide enough, with the shadow, and the armoire, and me; without touching. So I turned sideways, and shuffled through in the space between the cold air register (a hole in the floor,) and the shadow.

As I passed, I said, "Excuse me."

Then continued, without looking back, to my bedroom; where I closed the door, and tried not to worry about it. As far as ghost-stuff goes, that experience was as nonthreatening as it gets. The physicality is extremely notable, because I have seen a lot of stuff that totally wasn't there. Like a specter.

But this was totally there. It was so totally there, that I did not touch it.

Why didn't I touch it?

Well, what would happen if I touched it, and it was real, and not a burglar, or a person, but a solid, human-shaped... solid shadow mass thing... and it turned around?

Do you have a contingency plan for, "I just poked a ghost, and now it's following me?"

I just did a Google Search, and it can't grasp the concept of touching a ghost. It only shows results for ghosts touching people. It just isn't done!

Or maybe, and this is really important for you to consider, before you go touching ghosts....

Or maybe, no one who's touched a ghost has lived to say anything about.

I'm just saying.

Don't poke ghosts

I updated the menus for the site. Here's a quick breakdown of what the sitemap looks like right now.

Stay tuned for more updates.

AlamedaNativeArt.com has several, concurrent, series and galleries being published right now. Here's a break-down of what you can expect.

East Bay Parks

A series of travelogues, and galleries, highlighting the East Bay Parks.

New articles will be published weekly, on Thursdays, to give you time to read-up, and plan your weekend. Articles will feature pictures, maps, and include a link to the companion gallery, in the Art section.

Haunted Alameda

This section already has one story, "Growing up on the Alameda Indian Burial Mounds".

More will be added soon. There is no specific publishing schedule for this series. But, twice a month is probably a realistic expectation. This section may also features stories related to me. There may be calls for submissions, and a even some contests & prizes in the works. This project will probably heat up the closer we get to Halloween.

Zombie: The Incident at Bloody Rock

New chapters post weekly, on Saturday. First chapter drops Jan. 9, 2021.

Re-booted. A miracle cure becomes an unfathomable nightmare. Takes place at a children's research hospital, in the remote Bloody Rock, California. This is novella-length; and the first of three books. New chapters post weekly, on Saturday. First chapter drops Jan. 9, 2021.

Check back for updates, soon. This website is still pretty new; more content becomes available frequently.

Phase 2

The Search for Undiscovered History

Using technology to rediscover our everyday surroundings.

Employing citizen science to crowd source casual and scientific observations. Wading through the tule. Using LIDAR, Photo-grammetry, and Geocode.

Building upon scientific observations. Recovering anecdotes. Finding additional data sources. Developing meaningful data sets to share with the greater scientific community.

Boldly observing what there is to observe, 112 years later.

How much more exciting can history be?

Now you can join the search, too!

I'm looking for a few collaborators to help gather location intelligence around the Bay Area. This includes participation in a number of different activities, like:

• Learning about, and reporting on Place History;
• Using Google Earth, and other Imagery to Analyze Present-Day Locations;
• Going out into the field to make casual, non-invasive observations.

Special skills:

Archeologists--Specifically Observers who are present at construction sites, in accordance with the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act.

LIDAR Specialist--With file conversion skills. [LAS Tools has a bit of a learning curve, out-of-the-box, and with no expertise.]

Drone Operators--Hopefully something with a camera. See below for more because....

Equipment Operators--If you have it:

• 3D Imaging Equipment
• LIDAR
• TIMS Equipment

Stay Tuned for More

More updates will become available as they happen. This website is updated frequently. Be sure to check out the other sections of this site as well!

Keeping the Design Fresh
Adding Functionality

I've been performing some copy editing, graphic art production, and user experience design, to make the website more user-friendly. Also because images can convey information in a way that is not as readily available as print.

I try to make sure to optimize for both Desktop and Mobile views. If you're wondering why the website doesn't look right in Tablet view, that's why.

Check out some of the new changes:

Alameda Native Art .com

New Images, Layouts, and Designs

Alameda Native History Project

Copy Editing, Design Changes, New Images, Layout, Menus

• Beginning editing individual pages.
• Developing section for Phase 2:
  The Search for Undiscovered History

Archives

Completely new layout. Page legitimately features the three ongoing serials:

• Guide to the East Bay Parks
• The Urban Reservation
• Zombie: The Incident at Bloody Rock

About

• Added Social Media links.
• Added directory of email address in the Contacts section.

Check back soon for more updates!

Alameda Native History Project Wiki MOVED

The new URL is: Https://alamedanativeart.com/wiki

This concludes the AlamedaNativeArt.com Service Announcement.

Phase 1: "Unauthorized Alameda: The Indian Burial Mounds";

The true story of what actually happened to the Mound off High Street, in Alameda, California.

Includes Haunted Alameda:

A collection of ghost stories about living on and around the Alameda Shellmounds.

Phase 1

Mission: Find the true history of the Alameda Shellmounds.

Objectives:

1. Find out where the only known Alameda Shellmound was.
2. Find out what happened to the mound.
3. Find out where I can see the artifacts from the mound.

Status: Complete

Outcome:

1. Learned there are 4 Shellmounds in Alameda; and where they are, today.
2. Learned there were 2 excavations of the Shellmound off High Street, in 1892 & 1908--when the mound was leveled-off. But bodies still remain just under the surface of places which remain largely untouched since those first houses were built.
3. Found the final, grisly fate of the "450 indians with stone implements". The remains of Native American people were ground up, and used as aggregate, for paving Bay Farm Road. (Remains were also used for a number of other roads, and sidewalks.)
4. Learned that there are over 425 shellmound sites in the San Francisco Bay Region.

All of this will be addressed in later articles. Excerpts of the Articles on both excavations will be grouped together, and populated in the Wiki. But... this project has a lot of departments, [seriously, it's bigger on the inside,] so bear with me.

Findings:

1. Shellmounds are, first and foremost, cemeteries; and should be respected, not disturbed.
2. The actual, pre-contact, population density of Native Americans in the Bay Area is grossly under-stated.
3. Not many people know about the shellmounds, despite that fact that many shellmounds are usually less than 15 minutes away from any place in the San Francisco Bay Area.
4. Gate-keeping, and white-washing exists in all facets of academia; and must be countered in every way reasonably possible. History should be based on fact. And sources needed to be vetted more often.
5. There must be a proactive effort to identify and protect Native American graves on private property; and to educate the public, and concerned persons, about the development, and usage of non-invasive sensing technology that requires no touch, and no digging.
6. The interface for said effort with private property owners and occupants should include reassurance that their land rights should not be infringed upon, either; but creating a permissive easement, and/or right-of-way for descendants, and tribal members to come visit with their ancestors is something that can go a long way in settling the affairs of the land.

Phase 2 of the Alameda Native History Project is a natural next-step for the project.

After gathering, compiling, indexing and aggregating information about the Alameda Shellmounds, it made sense to see where other shellmounds in the San Francisco Bay Region are.

Mission: The Search for Undiscovered History

Objectives

1. Conform N.C. Nelson's, "Map of the San Francisco Bay Region Showing Distribution of Shell Heaps" to the current geography of that same region. Fully plot, and find the geographic coordinates of the mounds marked as "still present". [Completed.]
2. Use satellite, photogrammetry, Light Detection and Ranging, and other imaging available to analyze said coordinate for specific elevation and topographical qualities.
3. Make a list targets to investigate, and perform a preliminary investigation to determine if further focus is warranted.
4. [Reserved.]

STATUS: Ongoing

Stay tuned for more.

New layout.

Focus on graphics.

Still fleshing out other stuff.

And updating when I can.

Also, these blog pages have a new layout that I haven't customized at all yet. Sorry it's so bright.

I think that's next.

A new video was introduced.

New plats were made.

New data-types introduced.

In this case, LIDAR.

Illustration of how neighborhoods can exist on top of shellmounds, without anyone even knowing, or considering the possibility that the hill they live on is not "normal".

More on that later.

Stay tuned!

Using LexisNexis as a guide.

A free database of all of the State of California Judicial Opinions can be found at here, on the California Courts Website, in the Published Opinions section. (You only want to use those.)

law.Justia.com is cool. And I have compared the information from opinions on their website, to the official, Published Opinion, and found no errors. I just trust the court website a little more. However, Justia.com does make it easier to find things like Jury Instructions, and Bench Books for Judges; and they have a database of opinions which covers all states, federal, and even Tribal Law opinions.

So, list my precedence here....

1. Grosvenor Shellmound Assoc. v. Superior Court of County of Alameda (Aug. 15, 1990, No. S016392) Cal.3d [1990 Cal. LEXIS 3679] - Request for appeal by Grosvenor Shellmound Assoc. from a prior, unreferenced decision denied.
2. Emeryville Redevelopment Agency v. Harcros Pigments, Inc. (2002) 101 Cal.App.4th 1083 [125 Cal.Rptr.2d 12] - Dispute over the market value of condemned land, and admonishment that former landowner is only entitled to the amount of salvage for fixtures and things, and nothing more.

I also search for "Shell Mound".

But this is really it. I received 10 hits. These two are only vaguely related to the shellmounds.

Grosvenor Shellmound Associates is a corporation associated with Grosvenor Americas, which was approved for a "a 12-story, mixed-use building with 156 units, approximately 5,000 square feet of ground-floor commercial space and a 80-space subterranean parking garage", at 1951 Shattuck Avenue. According to BerkeleySide, the project has been approved, but a Building Permit has not been issued, yet.

That's it.

ADDED: My next search, which totally used law.Justia.com, turned up 126 results. Cool! Also, who tf is Salazar? My guess is the secretary or director of the BIA or something. Or the AG at the time of Initial Filing. I'll find out after I read this stuff.

Recognize the Urban Reservation, and envision an Intertribal Future for the San Francisco Bay Area.

After checking out Timbisha Shoshone Tribe v. Salazer, in the United States Court of Appeals, District of Columbia, No. 11-5049, decided May 15, 2012, one major thing popped out to me, that seems to be a recurring theme--other than lack of standing, and failure to state a cause of action...

In-fighting. Sabotage.

One of the families involved in this case filed an amicus brief against the moving party to stop the litigation from moving forward, because they wanted to fight over who was the tribal council, while the actual legal issue was whether or not any tribal council can be recognized.

This isn't new at all. Lots of fighting happens inside all sorts of different types of organizations and groups [ask Norman Lincoln Rockwell], in fact this kind of family law stuff is usually found in Probate...

But... this fighting lead to delays and undermined the credibility of the tribe--as a whole. It put the common good of of the many behind the petty quarrels of the few. And risked permanent, long-term damage to the recognition of the tribe, and threatened to preclude any descendant from ever be able to petition the court, for anything.

These types of politics need to go.

No one wants to talk about about it, because it's embarrassing, and a source of shame for anyone who considers themselves Native American; but this kind of sabotage is common. Sometimes it seems like we're more willing to hold everyone down than lift them up, if it means an individual or single family can get money or power by doing it.

The amount of gate-keeping, and selfishness over something that should be communal always amazes me. The elitism is fierce.

I'm not really here to criticize this. But, critical analysis is sort of unavoidable, when you read the actual story. It would be profoundly irresponsible for me not to mention this case, or this issue, when I examine the intricacies behind the real-world legal battles over Native Land, the Loss of Life, Livelihood, Language, and Culture.

I just think it's interesting, the juxtaposition between the universal togetherness that Native America tries to project, and the actual, divisiveness, isolationism, xenophobia, and individualism that permeates our real, everyday lives; and the direct parallels to how Native American People and Tribes have been treated. It's almost a carbon copy.

This is also why I decided to leave the Non-Profit Sector, all together.

Because I would rather get something done, instead of watering down my mission, every single step of the way, because I need to coddle someone else's bullshit, or because I have to argue with someone who really only cares about their name being on the top of the bill, or their face on the front page--and try and convince them that their narcissism is great for pictures, but it's shit for leadership.

And because I decided that disbursing Ryan White Funds should be done according to real data; and that the reporting on the effectiveness of the spending of funds earmarked for AIDS Testing, Treatment, Social & Support Services be true and accurate, even though I was basically told to produce a lie that said the services were all doing great. They even tried to sue me. But I still have the original report those chumps actually paid me to make.

So I'm a free bit, now. Solo act. Independent. Beholden to no one, and thankful to those who choose to support this effort.

There has been some objection to what I'm doing.

Because some people think I am trying to "expose" something I shouldn't. That my actions will directly result in the further desecration and harm to heritage sites in the San Francisco Bay Region. But I have a completely different take, altogether. And I believe that this information will actually help protect the shellmounds, if it's put in the right context.

We must ask the hard questions.

How can you possibly protect something by not telling anyone where it is?

Don't you think you should tell people they own land that has a mound, so they don't go digging into it? Wouldn't that actually help to prevent desecration or destruction? Can't we just tell a Parks Department that they have a shellmound, and ask them to help protect it?

You're worried that the mounds will be desecrated. But I have documented instances of cemetery looting and desecration all over the bay area.

And Cemetery Looting, and Grave Robbing is sort of a thing for white people. No, seriously: Mummies are a really good example. In Egypt, and Peru. The Smithsonian has a whole collection of human skulls. There are bones on display all over the world in museums; and they account for thousands upon thousands of unrested souls.

But it's not the 1800's anymore. Native Americans aren't "going extinct". This stuff isn't even interesting in that way anymore. There isn't a rush to dissect and collect everything like there was during the California Genocide. We survived.

And so have the shellmounds. They're not all lost. A whole bunch are still here; hiding in plain sight. So now it's time to try and reconnect....

There was a 6-7 year planning period for the Glen Cove Waterfront (where a Sierra Miwok / Patwin shellmound is [it's on the border, and was probably intertribal to begin with.]) This planning process included the actual tribe whose land Glen Cove is on. A tribe which was initially involved in protests to gain attention, representation, and awareness; but stepped back because they did not want to be involved in a larger battle based on scorched earth, conflict-oriented politics.

I believe that it is possible to negotiate for easements. But we all need to be super fucking cool, about a lot of stuff, to just sit down at the table.

The way we've been doing it has gotten attention, and notice. So it's no longer necessary to yell.

Gabriel Duncan, being meta in this article.

There are lots of people who actually are willing to listen, and do what they can, to help us.

And I honestly believe that we can meet the people who live here, today, and come to an understanding. Form a co-existence. We have so much to offer each other. And it's really important right now, that we all work together to save this whole fucking planet; and help find and reconnect all our missing family.

This also means finding, visiting these mounds, and praying for their spirits, praying for forgiveness, praying for our futures, and offering them--our ancestors, and the [word for the ephemeral everything/the sum of all], something to tide them over, to satiate them, to help us and give us guidance.

We have been shut out and shut off from the power of the earth, and the power of our true traditions, performed on our ancestral soil for so long that we have almost forgotten what that looks like. In many cases, we only know from what someone else told us about ourselves.

Even more, from that mysterious feeling we get sometimes when an animal comes over and looks it us like it recognizes us. But we don't recognize them, anymore. We are going to have to pray for remembering. This is what I meant by "Remember the Ghost Dance".

It's possible to do this. But it does require navigating the colonized world. And it also means being realistic about where, and how to spend our energy.

It seems like every shellmound that people have been organized to "save" has already been destroyed, or mostly destroyed, or leveled, or are not--in any way, shape, or form--recognizable as a mound.

The land under Bay Street was desecrated way before the mall was built. First for an amusement park and dance pavilion in the 1870’s … then for a pigment plant in the 1920’s.

Rob Arias, "2005 'Shellmound' Documentary Exposes the Truth Behind, and Under, Bay Street Development"; JAN-15 2014 https://evileye.com

So I'm actually a little confused as to whether or not these people are serious about protecting heritage sites.

My point is: Stop wasting your time on things which have already been destroyed.

Can we change our vision to include actually celebrating the beauty of the natural world around us, and the resources we still have, instead of wallowing in the pain and destruction of something which has already happened?

Maybe the job of these protests was completed the first time,

which was: visibility & representation.

There is visibility. People know about the Emeryville Shellmound, fewer about Glen Cove (even though that effort was more recent), and only a select, elite group of Bay Area Residents know about the Drake's Bay Shellmound. But the Drake's Bay Shellmound is an old story. And the area around Glen Cove was already leveled, and graded for tract housing in the 90's. By 2011, the landscape was completely unrecognizable.

There are protests every year, at the Bay Street Mall. A vigil. But it's not like the Sunrise Ceremonies on Alcatraz Island. Because the sunrise ceremony, though laced with the bittersweet, is still a celebration of life, and a prayer for the future. It offers hope, and fellowship.

A vigil is like a wake. It's completely different. It offers no way forward, no hope for life beyond colonization.

That doesn't have to be the end of the story. There is a way forward. There's always another way; and we can do it.

Instead of only focusing on that one site; why not focus on the numerous shellmounds which still absolutely exist today?

Many of them are on quiet land, which would be suitable for the multi-day ceremonies, that you, and I, and the rest of us stuck here in the colonized world desperately want.

But what we don't want is any group of people who can't even stand together without stabbing each other in the back, trying to boss us around about our traditional ceremonies and beliefs, which we are also forced to practice in the exact same colonized spaces.

Certain areas must be intertribal. You don't own the monopoly on being "Native American from the Bay Area." That's not why Intertribal Friendship Houses exist. We have to share our medicine now, to make a complete ceremony, because these shellmounds are all over the San Francisco Bay Region. Not confined to the area known to any one tribe or group of people.

Gate-keeping, and elitism must end.

P.S.

This article below is a somewhat procedural overview of the Emeryville Shellmound. I like it. It's very good for introducing the reader to the whole history in a more neutral ("procedural") way.

"Emeryville's Burried [sic] Shellmounds: The Emeryville Shellmound" by Ben Feldman.

Oops. I switched to a standard theme. Will customize it more later. This just needs to work for now; because I have some things to post.

Building an Empire with Stolen Bones

Sign the petition,
"End the Practice of Using Native American Graves for Landfill & Construction"
https://www.change.org/SaveSanPedroPoint

Over 425 shellmounds existed in the San Francisco Bay Region.

Most are 'said to be destroyed a long time ago.'

But that's not true.

Many shellmounds still exist.

But who destroyed the shellmounds?

Where are the shellmounds today?

Some mounds were cut into, and ground up to make golf courses.

Other mounds were built on top of, to make tract housing on landfill.

Turned into trash heaps...

• Schools.
• Malls.
• Shopping centers.
• Government buildings.
• Roads.
• Sewage trenches.
• Skywalker Ranch; Marin Kaiser Hospital; Northgate Mall.
• And more.

Transforming America's first cemeteries, from an idyllic resting place, into a grimacing pit in the middle of Marin County.

All paid for, and approved by the County of Marin; the cities of San Rafael, San Anselmo, Ross, Tiburon, and more.

Sign the petition,
"End the Practice of Using Native American Graves for Landfill & Construction"
https://www.change.org/SaveSanPedroPoint

The bones of our ancestors are still being used in the year 2021.
Our ancestors: crushed.
An empire built using stolen bones; bodies snatched from their graves.

--Gabriel Duncan

And used to make this:

You can stop them

Shut down the San Rafael Rock Quarry

Make your fight matter.

Champion your cause and win!

We are stronger. Rise up.

Sign the petition,
"End the Practice of Using Native American Graves for Landfill & Construction"
https://www.change.org/SaveSanPedroPoint

I guess the first thing I should say is that I know this looks like some kind of CIA/COINTELPRO hit job on a local Native American Leader. Before I tell you that's not what I actually set out to do, let me answer some basic questions, and give you a background....

What was COINTELPRO?

Put simply, Counter-Intelligence Program was a multi-organization (CIA/FBI/etc.) domestic spying and disinformation campaign during the 70's. The purpose of this program was to discredit the various Civil Rights Leaders, like: Malcom X, Leonard Peltier, Martin Luther King Jr., Dennis Banks, and more. The rationale behind this was to undermine the authority, by spreading lies, disinformation, introducing drugs, and running proxy wars through competing organizations... among other things. Many of the techniques employed would fall under the category of "psychological warfare."

Undermining the authority of Civil Rights leaders by disinformation and all forms of sabotage is a staple of the White Supremacist Government Handbook.

Why do I think this looks like "hit job"--the same type of disinformation campaign that has been levelled against so many leaders working for real, measurable change?

Because I discovered information which could damage or discredit this leader's work, and their reputation.

And I did totally seek to correct the record about the true location of the West Berkeley Shellmound;

Which is not at all where the protests and marches have been; where the entire controversy has been centered around.

It does actually undermine this person's credibility because it calls into question their very expertise, because it exposes their mistaken assertion.

What is this information?

The West Berkeley Shellmound (CA-Ala-307) was last recorded as being at the "junction of Second Street, and Hearst Avenue", wedged between the El Dorado Linseed Oil Company, and Troiler Manufacturing Company, in West Berkeley, in 1950 CE.

The West Berkeley Shellmound was never underneath the Spenger's Parking Lot, at 1900 Fourth Street, Berkeley, California. To be accurate af, the final disposition of the mound is that most of it was "overspread" across the area surrounding the mound, leaving the final "archeological deposit", which was excavated and removed between 1950-1951.

What do you mean that's not where the West Berkeley Shellmound is? Didn't they prove there was a shellmound under Spenger's Parking Lot?

When the City of Berkeley hired outside archaeologists to survey the site, and determine if there were burials at Spenger's Parking Lot, they had already argued that this was not the shellmound. They even proved it with a map, superimposed with an approximate location of the shellmound, which was drawn from a University of California Archeological Sites map.

There was even the presentation and analysis of a more recent excavation, from an article published in 2004, in the 17th Volume of the Proceedings of the Society for California Archeaology. And several vain attempts to satisfactorily geo-conform that map.

Then there was an argument over whose map was more accurate. And they (the parties) started arguing over whether or not the mound was under the historic Strawberry Creek, or not.

Picture: U.S. Geological Survey, San Francisco [map], 1:62500, Topographic Quadrangle Map, Reston, VA, 1895.

My method was different....

I used the report on the West Berkeley Shellmound, under the UC Contributions to the Archeaological Research Facility. This report included:

1. The archeological site name: CA-Ala-307;
2. An explicit location;
3. Summary of Past Work;
4. Summary of Past Observations, with analysis;
5. Maps with relative locations of Historical Places I could find in public records.

So I side-stepped the arguments about using an 1895 CE map, versus a 1915 CE map, and which one was more accurate; and just went straight to work mapping the explicit location by its description. Why even argue about something so ultimately inconclusive? Developing the Nelson-Duncan map, and vetting different locations, I know that these little dots on these maps that the lawyers are arguing over almost never match up perfectly.

How do I even know how to map a location like that?

I've written, read, researched, found, copied, and pasted a few property descriptions in my time to record deeds. I've even written a few. It's not glorious, or exciting work by any stretch.

And I also know how to read a map, and use the information on it to interpolate coordinates of a location, triangulate my location, and to find bearing, among other things. I learned this in the context of Orienteering.

So what happened with the Archaeological Survey by the City and Developers?

They said they didn't find anything. No evidence of burials. No cultural affects, resources... Nothing. Furthermore, the City and Developers reasserted their belief (upon fact and evidence) that the Spenger's Parking Lot was not the site of the mound.

Cue the argument about the maps, and whether or not the whole site was actually under water because of Strawberry Creek, etc.... [Let's not even mention the sea-level rise between 1895, 1907 and 1951, respectively; because that, of course changes the position and prominence of the West Berkeley Shellmound on any map, or to any casual observer.]

But that's all an aside to the fact that the historical records, mid-20th century science, and Modern-Day science could not find anything to substantiate the Spenger's Parking Lot as being the site of a Shellmound.

The only evidence that was found was a small discovery, in one corner of the lot (the property/aka the "parcel") pointed more to the true location of the shellmound being at the location explicitly named in the paper I found: Second Street and Hearst Avenue.

Study of Bulk Sediment Samples from West Berkeley Shell Mound, by Kent Lightfoot, was created in 2018, using Stahl Research Endowment money, but the report doesn't seem to be publicly available in 2021, as I write this.

This wasn't the only location that Gould was wrong about, either. But this one matters the most because of the specificity of her claims.

The thing is: the City of Berkeley knows that's not where the shellmound was. The developers know. Anyone who read the studies, and did their own homework, totally knows the shellmound--at the very least, wasnt at the parking lot.

Despite that fact, the City and Developers still attempted to negotiate with Gould.

The Sweetest Deal I've Ever Heard Of... (Ever....)

In spite of a complete lack of corroborating evidence; no legal standing to object; with only a mob of protestors; the developers and City still tried to deal with Gould. And they offered the sweetest deal I've ever heard of. Ever.

• All of the land which isn't being developed immediately given back to the Ohlone Tribes;
• An Ohlone Community center, and Ceremonial Space on that land;
• A promise to return the rest of the land under development to the Ohlone Tribes after leasing the land from the tribe for 99 years;
• Rent for 99 years.

I cannot underscore what a big win an offer like this is. An offer like this is unheard of. I have never seen a settlement offer like this ever before in my whole entire life. Ad naseum.

But, what I've heard, and which hasn't been addressed by Gould--despite several requests for comment--is that Corrine Gould turned down that deal. And, instead, "offered" to purchase the land for less than 25% of the market value--even though the funds didn't exist. In spite of the fact that no reasonable person would consider that kind of counter-offer seriously.

Obviously, no one else took the offer seriously, either. So the sweetest deal ever was scrapped. And Gould, and Berkeley, et al., were locked back into a stalemate over preventing construction from occurring on that lot. At last check, this situation is still being litigated. And Gould's group has racked up about $80K in legal fees over this parking lot; which they're asking us to pay with donations.

It was never my intent to discredit,
or smear Corrine Gould...

But a few things came together at once.

1. My investigation of Glen Cove revealed the place where Corrine Gould centered her focus wasn't actually where the shellmound at Glen Cove was.
2. I also found that Gould's organizing was more a rogue element, than true representation in the name of the tribes whose land Glen Cove really "belongs to". Furthermore, I learned that the actual Tribal Government for Consultation (which was consulted long before Corrine Gould's eleventh-hour involvement) stepped back from the Glen Cove issue as soon as Gould's group began an occupation of Glen Cove Park.
   **This set off some red flags, and indicated that Gould's group may have effectively "hijacked" the normal course of consultation and consent.**
3. After having found several standing shellmounds, I began to question the efficacy of trying to "save" places that have already been so heavily altered, or developed already.
4. About this time, I became aware of Kanyon Konsulting, and was able to make a connection between Kanyon Sayers-Roods, Scott Territo, and Corrine Gould through their overlap and collaboration. This lead to the identification of an entire industry based upon Native American Consulting; an industry which makes real money, and in which there are very vocal gatekeepers.
5. Because it is relevant to learn about the current, past and future efforts to protect the Shellmounds of the San Francisco Bay Region: I began to identify Gould's style of organizing; her way of using "so called" to refer to cities when she's mad; her attacks against the people who disagree with her; the name-calling; arguments that are clearly based on existential fallacies; the dependence on the exact same talking points every time with no adaptation, or context for the moment. Unwillingness to actually explain anything, or answer any questions. And then the failed negotiations.

All of this stood in sharp contrast with Gould's ability to organize hundreds of people, raise tens of thousands of dollars for her cause, and actually strong-arm her way into negotiations in the first place.

I wasn't looking to discredit or smear Corrine Gould. I was just following the story where it lead me. The first thing I learned when I started this project was that no one seems to check the citations; no one seems to have actually read the study they're quoting; that experts aren't getting vetted.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes....
(And, in the interest of full disclosure.)

A year into my project; after being told the proper tribal government to contact is the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe; by several organizations, including the Alameda Police Department, Alameda County Coroner, Alameda County Sheriff's Department, and the Native American Heritage Commission (which is the actual authority that dictates the Proper Tribal Government To Consult.)

...And having sent mail, email, phone calls, and messages on Facebook, and Instagram to the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe, for a whole year--with no response.

...I receive a message on Instagram from @Corrina_Gould:

Horše Tuxxi I am contacting you as the Traditional Spokesperson and Leader of the Confederated Villages of Lisjan to ask why you are trying to expose the Sacred Sites of our ancestors. As this is our traditional territory and not yours we are asking that you stop posting information that could further damage or desecrate our ancestors places of rest and our village sites

30-Jan-2021 08:52 PM, @Corrina_Gould

My reply:

It could also lead to the protection of these sites. Establishment of landbanks; negotiations for purchase, or reparations. The creation of an actual homeland, of contiguous land. The remembering of places thought to be lost. Legit governmental recognition. A sense of honor, pride, and sovereignty that not many people have realized, at all. It’s actually really difficult for me to understand what your specific objection is, aside from a general concern that something bad could happen. I would like to understand this issue more.

04-Feb-2021 06:20 AM, @alamedanativehistoryproject

It’s also our decision in our own territories, it breaks traditional protocols and uses the same settler colonial ideas of entitlement

06-Feb-2021 11:53 AM, @Corrina_Gould

Soo... your concern is that this information could lead to damage to ancestral land; that I didn’t ask you for permission to do this project; and ... I’m acting entitled?

I can totally understand how you’re triggered by all of this. I read what you said about how you feel, personally, when visiting the shellmounds; and I respect that. So, I have to check in and make sure you know that I know what you said, and that I read the [entire] sogreate website to try and understand as much as I could before relying to your last message.

But I’m actually more confused than I was before, because it looks like this information can be used to address one of the main problems identified in the website: “The lack of access to traditional ceremonial grounds and to land appropriate for multi-day ceremonies is a serious challenge faced by Lisjan people today, since the tribe is not federally recognized and remains landless. A cornerstone of the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust’s vision is the construction of a traditional Lisjan roundhouse in the East Bay. The Round House will bring Lisjan and other Ohlone families and the broader intertribal Indigenous community together in a space for healing and spiritual renewal.”

How can you possibly gain access to these places if you don’t name them, and fight for them explicitly?

Why hasn’t your organization fought for shellmounds which are still “mound-y”? Why are you so obsessed with keeping this all a secret?

I hear you. And I feel what you’re saying. But I don’t understand why.

Please help me understand why I should stop doing a project I’ve already spent more than a year on just because someone FINALLY got back to me: and all they have to say is “stop”?

06-Feb-2021 03:50 PM, @alamedanativehistoryproject

I have been fighting for the protection of MY ancestors sites for over two decades Shellmound.org Protect glen cove Shellmound peace walks. Why are you doing this alone and not with the Tribal peoples in whose land you’re on? Why is it impossible for you to understand this is not for you to say where our sacred sites are. Go and talk to your elders and expose your own sacred sites or be respectful enough to talk to us and ask how you can help rather than feeling entitled to do this exposure. All burial grounds of Native people in this place now called the US do not have the same rights as recent cemeteries. People still dig up our remains and funerary items and sell them on eBay and get little more than a slap on the wrist. Exposure gives these assholes a map

06-Feb-2021, @Corrina_Gould:

To be fair: I tried to contact Muwekma through email, phone, Facebook, and both Instagram accounts over a year ago; and received no response at all. At that time, it was my understanding that the land bank at Coyote Hills, the Ohlone Cemetery in Fremont; and other areas are their property. Which is why I was trying to contact them, specifically. Furthermore, stories and articles going back to the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s, mention that community, the [Guzman] family, and Allan Levanthal, which all lead me to believe they are the proper authority to contact regarding that land, specifically.

[ *** Begin previously privileged information. *** ]

And, as far as stolen ancestors: I’m working on something that I’m not talking about to anyone. But... if you have a list of those auction listings, names of specific auction houses, collectors known to have these objects, it would help a lot in being able to address this issue.

You don’t know who I am or what I do for work. That’s cool. I’m just saying that because it’s important for you to know that I find people who don’t want to be found, and give them shit they don’t want to be given. I eat assholes for breakfast. And I plan to throw the colonizer into the cogs of their own machine. Using their own words, and their own rules against them. These two paragraphs are privileged information; and I’m telling you this because you need to know this isn’t about exposing anything other than the nazis and Indian war fighters who’ve been able to hide and live comfortably, in plain sight.

[ *** End previously privileged information. *** ]

And finding a way, a bulletproof, legal avenue, for Nations like yours to regain “standing”, in the legal sense. Untying both your hands so you can fight in court and box these fuckers out; gain legal authority, administrative autonomy, to be able to prosecute these crimes; and prevent them from happening ever again.

But, to “re-litigate” something that’s already considered settled, the moving part must show new evidence or circumstances that would warrant judicial notice and consideration.

The fundamental issue in all of these legal battles is a lack of standing and the inability of being able to quantify harm and damage in a way that satisfies the elements of a cause of action for land back. For instance, and in the very least, one could argue that the shellmounds are their property, and cite NAGPRA as an argument for why an easement is proper and necessary under the constitutional rights of an individual’s freedom of religion, then build upon that ruling, and sue for injunctive relief against various land-owners and companies to immediately cease desecration and desist from doing it ever again.

This sort of format would open the avenue for creating a class of individuals who can sue together. This could also be a way to gain access to private records from corporations like Chevron, and find out the full extent of their culpability. But, I think once your right to easement for the purposes of religious freedom is established, that will open the door to more assertions of sovereignty.

07-Feb-2021 06:43 AM, @alamedanativehistoryproject

And that was my first "run-in" with Corrine Gould. She didn't reply until a month later:

Hello Thank you for all of your suggestions. This platform is the best for me to have a conversation. And since it doesn’t have reminders like emails, they get lost and forgotten as I’m not consistently on IG. The Tribe has a legal team and others on our team working on protecting sacred sites. The mounds are in different Tribal territories so I’m not sure which ones you are referring to.

Also we are in a legal battle for 5 years at the WBS and are now asking people that support to go to the site and put a ribbon on the fence they put around the site. It would be helpful to spread that information

12-Mar-2021 08:48 AM, @Corrina_Gould

There's no face-palm emoji in Wordpress....

I don't have enough coffee for this.... BRB.

Okay. I'm back.

So, I don't even know where to start:

1. I'm not trying to encourage the desecration of sacred land;
   1. I'm trying to find novel ways to protect sacred land, and also efficiently use the methods which are already available;
   2. I'm also encouraging people to be curious about the world around them;
   3. To learn more about the places they inhabit;
   4. And to record these things, and keep the history;
   5. To ask your grand-parents about their grand-parents;
2. Corrine Gould never explained why she's trying to keep the locations of the shellmounds a secret; furthermore, she totally back-pedaled on her assertions of sovereignty over "her land" in that last message with, "The mounds are in different Tribal territories so I’m not sure which ones you are referring to.";
   1. Also, how can you be the host of "The Shellmound March", "Save West Berkeley Shellmound", "Save Emeryville Shellmound", and "Save Glen Cove Shellmound", but still insist on keeping the locations of shellmounds "secret"?
3. Anyone else, at any time, could have picked up the same exact studies, pictures, maps, and other documents that I found, because they're public record;
   1. N.C. Nelson already made the map of the shellmounds; the University of California Archeological Survey, Anthropology Department, Phoebe A. Hearst Museum of Anthropology, Archaeological Research Facility, and more, already have several maps which are all available to the public;
   2. If someone really wanted to find and rob these Native American Graves, if they were that determined to find the shellmounds--and then rob them--they could have (and probably did) already; and that has nothing to do with me;
4. Entitlement: what exactly am I acting entitled to? This is really complicated because:
   1. On one hand: Corrine Gould has a point, it does break protocol not to consult with the Tribal Government the Native American Heritage Commission determines is the proper entity to notify/consult. However, that Tribal Entity is not the "Confederated Villages of Lisjan", it is the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe. And I reached out to them as soon as I started working on the Shellmounds of Alameda, in late 2019.
   2. On the other hand, she's bullishly approaching this topic with same sense of entitlement that she's accusing me of having. And that's crazy. Especially considering the amount of work I put in to contact the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe; the tribal government the Native American Heritage Commission directed me to.
   3. But, overall, I just want to point out this is the equivalent of saying, "Get off my lawn!" And totally doesn't honor the fact that Gould is talking to someone who was born in Alameda, California, and, therefore definitely has birthrite citizenship to Huchiun (at the very least.)
   4. Plus, the idea of telling me to go back to my tribe is racist, in nature. And is completely tone deaf an ignorant to the fact that I was adopted at birth. I found that to be the most offensive thing Gould said to me.
   5. And, to be more petty than I need be: Gould doesn't even have any standing, her tribe isn't recognized by the State or Federal governments, so who is she to tell me that I'm invalid? Is this who we are now? Is this how petty Gould really wants to be? Is this really how Corrine Gould conducts herself "in private", as the so called "Traditional Spokesperson and Leader of the Confederated Villages of Lisjan"?
5. Gould kept on introducing new topics, but never actually addressed them. Like stolen ancestors. I want to know more about that. Where's the list of names, Corrine?! Tell me more. Who are these private collectors?
6. And then there's just the overall ambiguity behind whether or not Corrine Gould really was contacting me on behalf of Lisjan, Sogorea Te Land Trust, Shellmound.org, or on her own. Yeah, I know she identified herself officially at the beginning; but why didn't @villages_of_lisjan hit me up? I had already been in contact with the official account. And every indication from our initial conversation was cool. If this were an official communication, how come it wasn't done officially?
7. There is an Official Alameda Native History Project Email Address: info@alamedanativehistoryproject.com.

Maybe I did get a little triggered.

But I just don't appreciate someone projecting all of their issues, and problems, and problematic behavior, onto me. (I have enough of my own.) Especially when you don't know who I am, and have no understanding of what I'm doing, or what my goal is. Just because you felt threatened by me did not mean I was a threat. But I definitely decided to go in on Corrine Gould; specifically because this project is about the facts, and presenting the truth, and educating the public about the shellmounds, to encourage their protection, to fight for the return of sacred land, or at least the easement to visit and hold ceremony there to actually start healing; and get people like Corrine Gould out of "survival attack mode".

This project is about fighting gatekeeping. If one of those gatekeepers happens to be a Native Leader who's spending more time attacking, being negative, and trying to privately oppress the work of others.... They're not going to get a pass just because they're famous, or because they're "doing good work". I'm not going to help whitewash history the exact same way I'm accusing other historians and researcher of doing.

This project exists because I realized that everyone was just quoting everyone else.... But when it came time to talk specifics, no one read the article, the paper, the book, or the journal. No one bothered to track down the citations. And that's what happened with Imelda Merlin, and the Alameda Historians' Complete Reliance on Unvetted Sources. And that's also what's apparently happened with the West Berkeley Shellmound.

We have been lulled to sleep by the same stories and narratives, which haven't been changed for the last decade or more. We have gotten used to just accepting what's being told to us, without question. To giving money to a cause just because it sounds good, because you feel guilty for benefitting so much from White Supremacy, and the exploitation of Native American People, and The Earth.

Am I saying, "Don't pay Shuumi to the Sogorea Te Land Trust"? No.

I'm saying: stop blindly following someone's lead just because it sounds good. Do your own research. Ask what your money is being used for. Actively encourage these organizations to make better choices for all of us, to do more. To responsibly advocate. To let these organizations know that you want to see outcomes. It's been decades, and the only list of accomplishments I've seen are largely symbolic. Maybe that's an indication that the current approach, which I've called "scorched earth", and "all-or-nothing", doesn't work.

Expecting to get 100% of everything you ask for is thoroughly unreasonable. And it won't become any more reasonable just because you're screaming, or holding your breath. It's 2021; people are actually listening now. Stop attacking them and burning bridges.

Further harassment by members of Sogorea Te...

Cheyenne Zepeda,
Sogorea Te Land Trust Volunteer Coordinator
& Land Team Member wrote in:

Your ignorance is astounding! All of this "research" you're doing is definitely not helping you understand anything! The way you speak and post is that of an oppressor! You may look like a queer person of color but you are nothing more than a KAREN! Go to fucking therapy and get some help because you seem to be lost.

18-Mar-2021 11:35 AM, @510ak_native
Picture from Sogorea Te Land Trust "Staff & Board" Page

Is this what you really wanted to donate your money to?

Is this really where your "Shuumi" "land tax" goes,
personally attacking people who disagree with you?

Asking for a friend.

I actually replied to this. Cheyenne continued to accuse me of taking just bits and pieces of what I learn, "and run with what you think is a cover up or conspiracy instead of learning what an actual Sacred site is or even a shellmound."

Right... okay. I get it now, as I'm writing this. She thinks I'm some crazy conspiracy theorist who just all of a sudden is dropping into this without any real knowledge of the situation or the "truth". Because anyone who agrees with what the City of Berkeley, or the Developers say is instantly an "enemy", and a liar.

This is actually similar to Trump'ism. And really. Identity politics are toxic AF.

So after I told her I'm not saying there's a cover-up, or a conspiracy, that I'm just saying they're wrong, and then explained that Corrine came for me first, and that I want to protect sacred land, but I'm not going to lie to do it, or whitewash history in the same way wypipo did--and proceeded to invite her to tell me where I'm wrong, and show me the proof; told her that I cannot retract or apologize for anything if I don't see the evidence... That I'm open to the possibility I'm wrong....

She left me on "Seen".

Typical.

Don't argue with me if you don't want to read. I wouldn't be saying any of this if I couldn't back it up with cold hard facts.

This should have been a post about the Mounds at San Pedro Point. But that will have to wait until later.

Update April 27, 2021:

Cheyenne Zepeda is actually Cheyenne Gould, a relative of Corrina Gould, who is the Spokesperson for Sogorea Te Land Trust. So it appears that only the Gould family is actively attacking me.

Sogorea Te Land Trust responded to my request to keep things civil:

This conversation happened outside of her work with Sogorea Te Land Trust and on a personal account, not one that is associated with our organization.  We do not police our staff on their personal social media accounts.

Sogorea Te Land Trust, April 14, 2021

Apparently, Sogorea Te Land Trust doesn't believe in individual accountability, or require their volunteers to act with dignity or integrity.

The project continues...
Stay tuned.

This map shows the Tribal Lands and Shellmounds of the San Francisco Bay Region.

Most maps of this area show "Language Groups". I think it's important to specifically mention that Language Groups are not Tribes, and do not accurately reflect the culture or specific Identity of a Tribal Group, or "Triblet".

This map was really hard to conform using present-day landmarks.

Not only has sea-level risen considerably in the past 112 Years; but much of the coast line noted in the Coastal Survey has eroded, or used as fill, to erase much of what was open water along the San Francisco Bay Area Shorelines.

This is something that was especially noted in later studies of Bay Area Shellmounds: the possibilty that a mound which had been observed in 1908, was probably lost to the sea by erosion, before the 1970's and 1980's.

The changing topography of the Coasts, rising sea level, and dredging and landfill (among other things) have made it futile to argue about some places, like West Berkeley; where no one has a good idea of where the West Berkeley Shellmound actually was, despite the address of Second & Hearst given to it.

People would rather argue over the location of Strawberry Creek, and it's accompanying marsh instead of taking another hour or two to just read the studies, and find the specific location.

Other mounds did not have the luxury of being named specifically. For instance, the Fernandez site, a shellmound situated in the Rodeo, California area, a little South-West of Martinez, California did have a partial coordinate address mentioned. But, when the coordinated are viewed, the location hovers over the waters off San Pedro Point.

There is also another mound, which was located in the bay, around where Midshipman Point is, which is just gone. No mention of whether the mound was actually standing in 1908, whether it was covered by water, or used to fill the area south of California State Route 37, where it meets the Lakeville Highway.

Furthermore, trying to rectify Nelson's map to the shoreline of the interior of the San Francisco Bay Area was even more difficult, considered about half of the shorelines are artificial. That is: the shorelines have either been filled or dredged, and do not match the historic shorelines. This made it very hard to judge the specificity of the locations of the shellmounds mapped by Nelson.

But, by using 29 control points, I've managed to rectify the map to the best of my ability.

After studying maps, and reading literally thousands--maybe tens of thousands--of pages about the First Peoples of the San Francisco Bay Area; I've learned a lot.

It took a while to read works from the beginning (1800's), up to the latest, including Randall Milliken's work; which goes beyond the 2009, "A Time of Little Choice".

He also did work on the Graton Rancheria; and the Confederated Coastal Miwok and Southern Pomo tribes.

But I found Milliken's "Ethnohistory and Ethnography of the Coast Miwok and Their Neighbors, 1783-1840" on Marin Miwok's website. That document has a map of "Coast Miwok and Pomo Communities withing the Zone of Franciscan Mission Disruption, their Probable Locations and Possible Boundaries". Very handy. I immediately printed it out and used it to figure out where Indian Beach is in all of this.

"Tribal land claims are complex, and overlapping."

You've probably heard that before.

While one group may be the most vocal about claiming their ancestral land, rest assured, there are other groups who claim that exact same place.

While it's true Indigenous People shared many spaces with each other for a plethora of reasons, including mutual survival, the actual "Tribes" in the San Francisco Bay Area were formed thousands of years ago.

In spite of the fact that the California Native American Heritage Commission recognized corporations as Tribes, it's important for you to recognize the difference between a corporation and a Tribe.

This is especially important Today; when seeking out indigenous people and tribes to consult with on various projects like land acknowledgements, cultural easements, land back, or deciding whether or not to pay into a "land tax" scheme.

When seeking a Tribal Consultant:

It's totally appropriate to ask if someone is an enrolled member or a recognized descendant of a tribe.

Indigenous People/Native Americans/First People can all do something that the Bureau of Indian Affairs refers to as "Establishing Indian Ancestry".

Proving our Ancestry, or Blood Quantum, is a common challenge Native Americans face. It may not be right, but it's the reason we know who our nearest Full Blooded Relative is.

Blood Quantum is an ugly, racist concept. [A tribe is made of family. That's how tribes work.]

But it's how we separate the Elizabeth Hoovers and Ward Churchills from actual Indigenous People.

It's appropriate to ask someone basic questions about their tribe, such as:

1. What is the name of your tribe?
2. Where is your tribe from?
3. Who is your Tribal Chairperson?
4. Are you enrolled in your tribe?

If they are a Tribal Chairperson, it's okay to ask them how long their term is, and when the next elections will be held.

If this person represents a group of tribes or villages, they should tell you which villages they represent without you having to ask.

Tribal Consultants are Affiliated with a Tribe

It's true that the Native American Heritage Commission is the agency in California which determines the proper Tribes To Consult for NAGPRA and Planning Purposes.

But, the Native American Heritage Commission does not seem to vet the lists, judging by how many corporations are considered not only Tribes, but the "Most Likely Descendant" to Native American Burial Grounds and Cultural Resources.

Land Trusts, and Consulting Agencies are not real Tribal Consultants because Corporations are Not Tribes.

Corporations cannot be Tribal Governments because the exercise of sovereign powers is not a charitable purpose. Sovereign powers include the right to repatriation of remains, as declared in the United Nations Declaration of Indigenous Rights, article 12.

One

As I was setting the tents up and dad was wrestling with equipment, I looked around.  The place was quiet.  Peaceful.  People were milling around, talking with each other.  All of them were smiling.  As I panned the place, a few people nodded at me and I felt obliged to nod back, ever so slightly.

A warm gentle breeze wafted through the clearing, and on it, I could smell food.  We’d set up camp behind the building, next to a big cypress, a few hundred feet away from the loading docks in the rear center of the hospital.  Most of the other people chose to set up on this side, too.  There were R.V.’s and those convertible truck things.

That’s when I met Rodney.  As I was tying down the rainfly on the tent, he walked up to me.  Rodney looked about my age, a few inches shorter than my 5’10”.  He was wearing some jeans and a Dredg shirt.  He didn’t say anything at first, just caught the side I was struggling with and helped me secure it.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

The guy offered his hand and said, “I’m Rodney.”

His grip was firm.  “Kenny,” I introduced myself.  I pointed to my dad, “That’s my dad, Corey.”

“Are you here for family, too?”  Rodney asked, but we both knew the answer.  He kind of detracted that question and asked me how long we were staying for. 

“Just tonight,” Dad replied, he was busy hooking up the stove and lanterns.

“Oh,” Rodney said.  He asked me, “You’re not staying for the festivities?”

Rodney moved with me to the truck and we formed a line, tossing pillows, sleeping bags and backpacks into the tent.

“Nope,” I told him, “Just here to take my little brother home.  Thanks.”

“No problemo,” Rodney replied.

“We need to go check in now,” Dad told me.

I looked at Rodney, who grinned back at me.  “It was nice meeting you,” I told him.  We shook hands and I followed my dad over to the hospital.

The woman sitting behind the front desk was nice enough, issuing us a parking pass along with our visitor’s badges.  I looked around.  The door on the right of the reception desk led into a large hall, which was being decorated for the night ahead.

On the other side of the lobby was a large curving staircase that led to the second floor, an arrow and the word “CAFETERIA” painted on the wall.  A few steps past that and we were standing in a large promenade with a skylight.  This place looked massive.  There were three sets of doors in the wall of the promenade, one of which was a set of double-doors I assumed led into a service-way.

The elevators were in the middle of the promenade.  It was encased in a glass shaft.  The doors were glass, but the top and bottom of the elevators were made of shiny steel.  There were nine buttons in the elevator: B-2 through 7; there was a slot for a keycard next to floor seven with a label that said “INFECTIOUS DISEASES, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.”

This is cool, I thought.  My dad mentioned it, too.  I watched the floors drop away from us, enjoying standing.  We got off on the fourth floor, where Clive would be waiting in the East Wing.  Before I went in, though, I looked up at the seventh floor.  It was sealed off with glass.

“Whoa…” I said to myself.

“C’mon,” Dad said; and I followed.

When we walked into the doors, I could smell the sterility.  The room was filled with the mellow echo of the EKG machines.  The nurse said my brother was still hooked up because they wanted to gather more data.  This was a research hospital after all.  Clive was watching some reruns of Family Guy as we walked in.

“Dad!” Clive exclaimed.  He almost jumped out of his bed.

Dad gave Clive a big ‘ole hug and then it was my turn.

“Kenny!”

“Hey little man,” I greeted him.

He looked better.  There was more color to his skin.  His eyes were shining.  He even looked like he gained more weight.  I was impressed.  He gave me a monster hug.

“Wow!” I said, “What are they feeding you here?!”

Clive giggled and told me they had a kitchen that cooked real food for his floor.  Lucky sod, I thought ruefully, we’re dining on Hungry Man meals and he’s dining out osso bucco.

We pulled up chairs and chatted about life in the hospital.  We hadn’t seen him for three-months.  It’s not like we didn’t want to go see him.  It was just the damn journey we’d have to take, there were no motels close by and . . . .  Well, we’re here now, I thought.

My brother told us about how the reporters had crammed into the room, trying to get the best shot for the evening news.  He said the injection felt funny, like a million butterflies were swimming in his veins.  The tingling sensation spread through his body and became barely tolerable.

At first he thought something was wrong, but one of the nurses (he pointed at her)—the hot one—calmed him down.  The “Governator” even shook his hand before leaving.  That’s when he went on about meeting Arnold Schwarzenegger, who was a god in his eyes ever since watching Terminator.  Frankly, I was jealous.  So was dad.

When the nurse came around to hand out water, Dad asked her when they would let Clive go.

“We still have to watch him for another month or so,” The woman said.  “But tonight, everyone healthy enough will be able to leave and visit with their families.  We planned the whole weekend for it.”

The nurse adjusted the leads and automatic pressure cuffs attached to Clive.  “You guys are really lucky, you know.”  She said.

Clive just beamed; the lucky one.

.

On our way back down, in the elevator of the seven-story complex, I reflected on what it would mean to have him home again, healthy.  Ever since Clive was born, the house seemed like a funeral parlor.  We both assumed that he was going to die soon, at any moment.  And any time he didn’t wake up quick enough, or seemed too tired to do anything, I thought…  It was just a matter of time.

Out of the elevators, everyone was bustling.  There were workers decking the halls for the banquet.  And suits running around, telling them what to do.  The receptionists (three of them crammed in where I figured one usually worked) were busy taking and making calls; the lobby was full of their voices.  We walked out the double doors and made our way down the wheelchair ramp.  My dad gave my shoulder a firm grip.

“It’s about time he got out of the hospital,” Dad said, referring to my brother, “To be honest; I didn’t think he was ever going to leave.”

I was very excited that Clive would be able to come home soon, and I’d be able to show him all the tricks I’d learned on my board since he went away, almost three months ago.

“Me too,” I told him.

“Do you think he’ll like his room?”  Dad asked.

We’d stocked it with all the video game systems, a PS3, all the Xbox 360 games we knew he’d love.  I’d been keeping the controllers warm for him.  “Zombie” just came out with their thirteenth and (maybe) final game for one of the story lines they made.  The new game was awesome.

Clive was as much into Zombie as I was, although he’d wake me up in the middle of the night because he had scary dreams about turning into one.  But I wasn’t as easily scared.  Sometimes he wouldn’t be able to wake me up, and he’d run into Dad’s room, screaming.  Dad yelled at me after those times.  He told me to hide the games where Clive wouldn’t find them.  But who was I to deprive my little brother of his favorite past-time?  He asked me about the newest one when Dad went to go hit on the nurse.

Watching Dad sit there with Clive and me; seeing him smiling, the hopeful shimmer in his eyes.  Man, it felt like we got the magic back.

.

At six, we were all summoned to the banquet.  There were hors devours all over the place, held by waiters with white towels on their arms.  An eight-piece ensemble was playing classic jazz and waltzes in a knave, next to the main stage.  The stage was a slightly raised platform at the end of the room.  A few old ladies were dancing in the middle of the large hall.

In front of the stage, there was a table of honor set up.  Our governor was already seated close to the head, the rest of his table was murmuring to itself, and watching the press with wary eyes.  Directly in front of them were the Drug Corp. International and donors tables.  Both groups sat and glared at each other through the small space between them.

The ceilings were vaulted, large circular depressions that held skylights.  From the outside, it had looked like a normal room.  But inside, it looked like we were in Rome.  Large panels were devoted to events like the construction and opening of the hospital.  The entrance wall was filled with donor plaques.

Dad and Clive went to find our seats while I walked around the room, staring at the moldings along the vaulted ceilings.  There was a story, about some god of medicine, I think.  I couldn’t tell for sure, but it didn’t look dedicated to a saint because the man was holding a snake, and that would not have gone over well in a Catholic establishment. Over the stage, etched into the arches, was something in Greek or Latin that I couldn’t read. 

“Would you like a drink?”  I heard from behind me.

I turned around and was faced with the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.  She was holding a tray with some martinis, glasses of champagne and some other drink with a cherry I’ve never seen before.  She had long brown hair that rested on the neck of her blouse, totally showing off the fact that she had big, nice boobs.  Her face was pretty, I mean, gorgeous, and I had to cough to clear my throat as I looked into her soft brown eyes.  She returned my gaze with a Mona Lisa smile, the edges of her lips curling at the ends.  …I couldn’t speak.

I was going to tell her I was only 18, but she was already holding a flute.  So I took it.  Sweet, I thought.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to keep my cool.

She gave me a smile that just rocked my world.  She didn’t say anything.  She just smiled and turned and walked away and I watched her.  Of course I watched her!  I didn’t even know her name.  But then she turned and gave me a grin.  I caught you, it seemed to say.  I gave her my best grin and pranced off to find dad.

“Dad,” I called trying my best to hide the flute on my side, “I’m going out for a fag!”

Dad looked up from the menu and nodded.  Clive jumped from his seat and followed me.

As soon as I got out, I lit up and took a deep hit.  I’d been waiting for that cigarette ever since I arrived.

I barely noticed as Clive zipped past me and took a lap around the parking area.  In fact, I didn’t notice until he came trotting back my way.  Considering that, the last time I saw him, he could barely hold his head up, this was a really good improvement.

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”  I asked him.

“Whatever,” Clive said, stretching, “It feels good to get out of that hospital bed.”

When I gave him the look, he added, “No, really!  It’s strange, I feel a hundred and ten percent!”

“So when’d you get the shot?” I asked.

“I dunno,” He said, “After lunch, a while before you guys got here.”

I hit my cigarette and looked for a building, a plane.  But I saw nothing.  The air was filled with the smell of earth, and the sound of crickets.

“What’s that?”  Clive meant my flute.

I took sip.  It tasted kind of tart.

“I think it’s champagne,” I told him.

“Oh,” He said, looking a little interested.

But I didn’t offer him any.  He jumped up and down a little, then; maybe just to get his land legs back.  Then he stopped and looked me dead in the eyes for a few seconds.  It was peculiar; I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.  He held the gaze so long that I was beginning to get creeped out.  But then he broke into a grin and gave me a bear hug.

“I’m glad I’m coming home,” He said.

I hugged him back, “Me too, little man.”

After we finished having our guy moment and walked back into the entrance, the hot waitress lady offered me more champagne.

“I haven’t finished my first one.”  I told her.

She gave me the same smile from earlier and said, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“You’re dangerous, lady.”  I grinned at her.

I finished my first one and took the second, then got her number discreetly while Clive went to get hors devours.  All around me were the family and friends of other children affected with AIDS mingling with Dr. Robertson and, I guessed, the pharmaceutical executives, or other interested parties.  As we sat at the table, I couldn’t get over how healthy Clive looked.  It had been so long since I’d seen him healthy.

I won’t go into all the details about lesions and the subtle downward spin he’d gone into shortly before being hospitalized.  But, this was the best I had ever seen him.  It brought a tear to my eye to know that he would be my normal little brother now.  There would be no more blood tests, no more worrying about his t-cells dropping. And we wouldn’t have to fight with him to take those disgusting pills.

I know I keep saying that.  But it was over.  All of it was over and he would be normal now.  It was like the end of a nightmare, where you wake up to your reassuring blankets.; satisfied that everything was okay, after all.

After everyone had been wheeled in, all the family seated, Dr. Robertson came out to full applause.  He was holding a large flute of champagne and his cheeks were rosy.

“Dr. Robertson looks drunk!”  Clive exclaimed.

I shushed him.

Dad cleared his throat, he was working on his third or fourth flute, “There’s nothing wrong with celebrating, Clive.  You can have some champagne, too, if you want.”

Clive declined; and we listened to Dr. Robertson begin his speech.  He told us we were a part of history.  He told us that, finally, the horrible disease that had taken so many would die on that night.

After a life of searching for the cure, he found it, one night, when he was tinkering with his stem cells.  It was serendipity.  He couldn’t believe it worked.  He tried it on sample after sample, on rats, guinea pigs; he even tried it on monkeys—but that’s just between us.

He even took healthy feline stem cells and used them to create a cure for the Feline Immunodeficiency Virus.  Tonight, the pain was over.  Thanks to his creation, and the government subsidies and pharmaceutical companies’ vows to keep it cheap.  Applause.

Then there were the photo ops.  The pharmaceutical executives gave him the giant check.  All the patients gathered outside for a group photo, and then went back inside, where there was cake and dancing.

When Clive and I decided to leave, I met up with Rodney.  We shot the shit as Clive and, his brother, Avery ran around in the field.

“So where are you from, anyway,” I asked.

“Santa Cruz,” He told me, “A couple blocks away from the boardwalk.  You?”

Rodney seemed surprised to learn that there was an island in the middle of the San Francisco Bay; even more that I lived on it.

“That must be pretty cool, though,” He said.  “You could row your ass to San Francisco.  …Is there any surfing out there?”

“Not inside the bay,” I told him, “But, yeah, at Stinson Beach and Ocean Beach.  The riptides are kinda gnarly, though.  Santa Cruz is way more desirable.”

It was getting dark when some dude in a black shirt and khaki cargos came running up to us.  His hair was shaggy, kinda surfer style.  I wondered if he was another brother or something, though they didn’t look related.

I tried not to watch as they talked lowly between each other.  The guy in the black shirt gave me a sideways look.  I was started to feel left out when Rodney let out a laugh and pulled the dude around by his shoulder.

“This guy’s cool,” He told Black Shirt, holding him.  “His name is Kenny.”

Black Shirt turned to me.

“Sup, Dude?”  We pounded fists, “I’m Trent.”

He pulled a blunt out of his ear.  It was fat, and I could smell the weed from where I was standing.

“Whoa!”  I asked, “Is that medicinal?”

“Yeah, man!”  Trent replied, “My mom gets it for her back.  Do you smoke?”

“Yeah!”  I replied enthusiastically.

“Do you want to come to our tent and smoke?”  Trent asked.

“Your mom’s tent?”  I asked, dumbly.

“No,” Trent said, gesturing to him and Trent, “Ours.”

It was about at that time that Clive, Avery and Trent’s brother, Sam came over to us, sweaty and breathing heavily.  Sam looked like a smaller copy of Trent.  It was kinda cute.

Clive wanted to come with us, but I didn’t think he should.  Someone had already come out and made the announcement that it would soon be time for all the patients to come back.  Even so, I wanted him to; so I asked Dad (leaving the last bit out.)  Dad told me to keep him close.  Clive knew about smoking pot, but he didn’t partake, and I usually didn’t pressure him to do it.  This was not an exception.  Clive liked to watch, though.  We ended up smoking five bowls of weed before I eventually tapped out.  And I swear Clive even got a contact high.  

Rodney, Avery and Trent followed us back to our big three-room dome tent.  I flopped down on my sleeping bag, in the left room, I couldn’t help it.  Clive came and flopped down against me.  The other guys hit the dirt, too.

It seemed like everyone there had pot, and everyone was sharing.  It seemed like we’d met half the camp around Trent and Rodney’s tent.

“I’m stoned,” I said.

“Me too,” Trent said.

When I looked over, Avery was closest to us, watching me and Clive.  Trent and Rodney were behind him, legs intertwined, resting against each other.  I put my arm around Avery and he snuggled closer.  

We listened to the sounds of music and the celebration around us and looked up through the clear rainfly, into the stars.  It felt good.  And I felt happy that my little brother was next to me, almost ready to come home.

My brother suddenly rolled over.

“What are you going to do once you’re better?” Clive asked Avery.

“I’m going to go back home and eat all the food I want to eat.  I’m gonna hang out with my dog and watch all the shows I missed, and hang out with my friends again.  Yeah,” Avery said.

I saw Rodney’s head pop up from under Trent’s shoulder.

“What are you going to do?”  Rodney asked Clive.

“I don’t know…” Clive said.  “Get a tan.  Learn how to kick-flip.  Go camping.”

Rodney lit up another blunt and we passed the time talking about sports and video games.  The “Governator” came up again.

“You lucky bastards,” Rodney teased.

I said, “If I’d have known, I would have sent you some movies and posters for him to sign.”

Clive made a face at me.  I made one back.

We were halfway through the second of Rodney’s blunts when I noticed Clive grimacing and holding his stomach.  In my arms, he felt tense.  It couldn’t have been after eight.

“What’s wrong, Clive?” I asked him

”My stomach hurts.”  He said.

I thought maybe we worked him too hard, with the running around and stuff.  So I told him, “Maybe we should get you back to your bed.”

“No!” He shrieked, “I don’t want to go!”

Rodney started putting his shoes on.

“C’mon, Avery,” He said to his brother, “We might as well go, too.”

“I don’t want to go.”  Avery told him.

“You have to.  Do you want to get sick again?”  Rodney asked.

“No,” Avery replied.

“Then it’s settled,” I turned to Clive, “Let’s go before you get sick, too, Clive.”

A flash lit up the sky, followed soon by an earth-rattling boom.

“Yep,” Rodney said, “Let’s go.  It’s raining.”

When we walked into the front doors, the lobby was bustling with activity.  Not just the regular clean-up after a banquet, something was going on.  A nurse—the hot one—ran up to us.

“Is Avery sick?” She asked Rodney.

“No,” He told her, “But Kenny’s brother has a stomach ache.”

She grabbed Clive by the arm and said, “C’mon, we’d better go.  We’ve been seeing a few people sick already.”

As we went into the elevator, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

The laboratories on the floor just below Clive’s were busy.  I mean, busy!  As we passed, we could see people in clean suits huddling over a microscope.  It looked like they were arguing with each other.  But I could only go off their body language.

“It’s probably something in the food, a minor case of food poisoning.  Most of the patients have been getting sick and, with such delicate immune systems, we want to be sure that they’re up to fighting off a tummy ache.”  She said the last words to the boys.

The AIDS wing was crowded with people holding files and rifling through storage bins.  I heard someone yelling about not having the right size catheter.  Many of the curtains were pulled around the beds, but we could hear sobbing, and alarms.  Dr. Robertson was there.

“You need to go and let us do our work!”  I heard one of the nurses yell.

“Dr. Robertson!” I called.

He turned around quickly.  Dr. Robertson looked frazzled.

“Kenny!” He said.  “Is Clive sick, too?”

“Yeah,” I told him.

Dr. Robertson called the hot nurse over and told her something quietly.

Rodney and Avery were trying to catch glimpses of what was going on behind the curtains.  But I was overwhelmed.  They took Clive to a hospital bed and had him strip down and get into a new hospital gown.

I watched the doctor running the wing like a triage.  As we passed him, I heard Dr. Robertson telling the RN Clive was the last one, to put people up in recovery, which was in the basement.  It hardly seemed comprehendible while I watch Clive get hooked up to a Pulse Ox and EKG leads.

I moved to a whole new level of numb as they drew his blood.  This isn’t happening, I thought.  We just got him back.  This is a mistake.  But it was.  Two beds over, I could hear a woman howling.  I could barely hear her over the alarms and yelling of the doctors.

“What’s going on?” Rodney asked.

When I looked over at them I could see they were as panicked as I was.  Though my panic was inside, it was a knot winding itself up in the middle of my chest.   I wanted to do something to help.  But I couldn’t.  I watched helpless as the woman adjusted a pressure cup on Clive’s arm.

“It’s very delicate,” The male nurse who tested Clive’s eyes said.  He was writing in Clive’s clipboard, “The cure doesn’t work on everyone.  And we didn’t exactly plan on people getting food poisoning the same day they took a cure for an immune disorder.”

“I think I need to puke!” Clive exclaimed.

The nurse pulled out a bedpan just in time.  We watched as he filled the first, entire bedpan, retching loudly.  It was disgusting.  His vomit was bright orange and green; and nothing in it reminded me of the chicken and vegetables we’d had for dinner.  I reached behind Clive and rubbed his back as he gasped and heaved and readied himself for the second one.  He was sweating.  His skin felt cold and clammy under his damp shirt.

“What’s wrong with him?” Avery asked.

“I don’t know.”  I gasped.

“Don’t worry,” The hot nurse said soothingly, “We’re going to find out soon.”

Clive started hacking up big black/red chunks of . . . it looked like jello.  He started crying.  I could see the blood beginning to run out of his mouth.  The doctor told us that we would have to leave, immediately; and that Avery would have to stay.

Avery didn’t want to, but—once the nurse had steered us away from Clive’s bed—she told him he could stay in the cancer ward, just to see if he got sick.  I was on the verge of flipping out.

But we couldn’t say much because we were shocked.  Rodney cried a little as they took his brother away.  I did, too; but because I just lost mine.  And probably for good.

I replayed the scene in my mind as Rodney and I rode the elevator down.

“Do you think the same thing is happening to everybody else?” Rodney asked.

“I don’t know,” I could still hear the alarms in my head, see the chunks.

“Do you think it’s food poisoning?”  Rodney asked.

“I don’t know.”  I felt sick to my stomach, too.  But it wasn’t because of the food.

We said goodbye at my Dad’s tent.  Dad was all smiles and rosy cheeks.  I felt cold and desperate.  When I told him what happened, his smile sank.  Dad lamented the unfairness.  How hard he worked to make the money to put Clive in the hospital. 

When he found out other kids had gotten sick, too, he wanted to sue.  But neither one of us knew how bad the problem really was.  We wouldn’t know until the morning. 

.

That night, I could barely sleep.  The sound of crying kept me awake.  I could hear the women from the hospital, still bawling.  I couldn’t forget the sound of the woman’s voice if I tried.  Except it wasn’t just her, it seemed like everyone was mourning.

During the night, it only got louder.  More and more voices would join the others.  More people were getting sick.  Soon, the entire camp sounded like a war zone.  When I finally fell asleep, I didn’t sleep for long.

.

It was still dark when I woke up.  The tent was open and the cold wind was blowing in.  It was quiet.  Dad wasn’t in his sleeping bag.  I wiped the sleep out of my eyes, pulled on my boots, and stepped outside.  I looked at the hospital and my eyes stung at the sight.  The flood lights all around the hospital were on, shedding piercing white, halogen light across the grounds.  The cold was stinging my face.

I could smell coffee.

“Do you want a cup?”  Dad was standing over the camp stove.  He had heavy bags under his eyes.  When I turned around, he gave me a weak smile.  I knew he was worrying about Clive.

“I’m gonna go check on him, Dad.” I told him.

Then Dad said something that hit me so hard I saw stars.

He said, “I think Clive’s dead, Kenny.”

“No he’s not!” I shouted.  “The doctors took care of him.  I saw!”

But I was really scared that he was right.  It was a creeping feeling that gripped me deep inside.

“Son,” Dad said, “I know you don’t want to think about it.  But we have to.”

I didn’t answer him; and he didn’t push me.  He gave me a cup of coffee and we sat in the chairs in silence.  Looking up at the hospital, I could see people running around on the fourth floor—probably still working like crazy.

“Do you think they’ll let me visit him now?”  I asked.

“Maybe,” Dad said.

I wanted to see my brother.  “Can I call them?”

Dad handed the cell phone to me, but it didn’t get any service.  I felt a hot wind rise up in my chest and a let out a long sigh.  I lit up a cigarette, handed the phone back to him and settled into my seat.

“What happened?”  He asked.

“No signal.” I told him.

“Oh,” Dad took another slurp of his coffee and nodded at the hospital, “They’re probably still in there.”

I sat there and fought myself over going in to see Clive.  The lights were on.  The most they would do would is tell me to leave.  But I wouldn’t want to go all the way up there for nothing.  No, I wouldn’t ask, I would just barge in and demand to know what was happening to my brother.
I’m going, I told myself.  I’m going right now.

Prologue

It was November.

My dad and I were in some place about forty minutes north-east of Enterprise, California; inside the Mendocino Forest.  We’d driven nearly three and half hours up the 101 from Treasure Island, where we lived.  Then we turned onto some poorly paved road and went further on.  The road led us over some hills and past Lake Pillsbury.  There were some shops when the road opened up, and followed the lake north.  One had a giant, steaming mug of coffee.  Against the woods there was a gas station.  None of them looked open as we passed.  Then there was the gravel airport, which didn’t look well kept.  Then more dirt.

One time we went too fast and almost lost control; our truck veering to the right while it felt like the weight was fishtailing off to the left.  My dad let out a nervous chuckle and grinned at me.  Point taken, it seemed to say.  Although I hadn’t said anything; I’d watched quietly from the passenger seat, staring out at the mountains in the distance, and the never-ending horizon.

Being from the Bay Area, I’d gotten used to artificial horizons.  But this, this was awesome.  I rolled the window down to feel the air.  A hot, dry gust of wind shot in.   It must be close to a hundred degrees, I thought.  I could smell the pine trees and something else, something sweeter I couldn’t place.  I stuck my hand out the window.

“What’s that smell,” I asked him.

“You mean the trees?” He said.

“No, the other one,” I told him, “The sweet one.”

My dad pointed his nose in the air and took a whiff. “I don’t know,” He said.  “Do you know how far the hospital is from here?”

I pulled the nav. device out of the backpack between my legs and turned it on.  I’d put it away for a while because it said we were supposed to go in a straight line until we got there.  I didn’t remember how far it said we should go, but what appeared as a little line on the map felt like hours.  The machine in my hands lit up and I watched as it loaded our trip.

.

The Francis E. Seymour Children's Research Hospital was one of California’s leading research facilities.  That's where my brother was being treated; and he was the whole reason we were there.

We were supposed to be celebrating the end of AIDS.  The cure, as far as we knew, was a copy of the HIV virus, rebuilt to destroy the real virus and replicate healthy T-Cells that were specifically designed to repair the damaged DNA in cells already affected by HIV using pure code from stem cells.  A man, a doctor named Henry Robertson made this breakthrough; and the FDA rushed to allow him to administer his cure to all of his patients.

This wasn’t entirely experimental now these days.  Scientists were beginning to make designer hearts and lungs for patients a little more frequently.  But it was still rare.  The cost of such an endeavor was extraordinary, and most of these cases were research-related success stories.  Doctor Robertson’s research was the single most important advance against the HIV pandemic.  And my brother was being treated by him.

We were invited to participate in their special ceremonies the next day, tomorrow.  The governor had become intimately involved in all of the happenings around the first injections and probably took this as a great photo-op.  The guy even dug into his personal coffers to fund the party.  Since the official announcement of the cure, the hospital had been swamped with reporters.  We'd even gotten a few calls.

My dad didn't want to talk to the reporters; and he forbade me to as well.  He said our business was our business.  He wouldn't even let Clive be filmed getting the injection.  I tried to talk him into at least interviewing.  But he would have none of it.  So I resigned myself to waiting for the day I'd see my brother again.

.

Mom thought she got away from the danger when she finally quit shooting, when I was four, and she found out she was pregnant with Clive.  But it just didn’t work that way.  

Clive’s thirteenth birthday is in a month.  Mom died giving birth to him and he has HIV like she did.  This was back in the day when doctors thought most babies born with it were doomed to live life in the hours.  But Clive was a fighter.  In any normal circumstance, I could have blamed Clive for killing my mom on the way out.  But this was something she did to herself, to all of us.  I still missed her; even though I had more pictures than memories.

I loved my little brother.  He was always nice, he always shared.  Sure, whatever, he’s my little brother, he gets into my stuff and tries to be me.  But I liked that.  There was a time I remembered that Clive stayed healthy for a few years.  Those days were the best.  We did lots of family stuff.  But he got sick again.

The rest of the time, Clive was sick, fighting some flu or a cough.  Every sniffle or fever seemed cause for concern.  The last year and half was the worst, though.  We didn't think he was going to make it.  He pretty much lived in the hospital.

The doctors in Oakland didn't have the expertise to handle him, though.  And that’s how he got here.  They kept calling Dr. Robertson for advice.  So dad eventually decided to put him in The Francis E. Seymour, where he could receive Robertson’s specialized care and expensive advice personally.  

They had to airlift him in because the campus was so remote.  When I asked why it so far out here, my Dad told me it was therapeutic.  But I could tell Dad didn’t really know why, as he searched the endless horizon for the building.  Clive had only been there for a few months and he was already making history.

I ran my fingers in the wind, tracing the outlines of all the hills I could see.  All the while I was thinking of how life would be with the new Clive.  

“What do you think about the vaccines?” I asked.

The governor had agreed to give half a million vaccines and a million cures to Africa.

“With our tax dollars,” Dad noted.

Delegates from the African Union would be there to accept them.  And they’d scheduled the ceremony for the day after the cures were administered.  That meant tomorrow.  We were invited to stay and participate in the ceremony, but dad and I weren’t trying to get on any evening news reports.  We just wanted to get Clive back.

Dad said the whole thing was covered in subterfuge.  …My dad believed in aliens and ghosts and pretty much applied to any of those whacked out theories he could put some evidence behind.  Even Bigfoot.  When I asked him about Africa's vaccines, he snorted.

“Diplomatic positioning,” My dad called it.

This whole event was staged, he told me.  Doctor Robertson signed with a major pharmaceutical producer shortly before they announced the cure publicly.  Of course, we had known long before then.  It was a coincidence that Drug Corp. International already had other DNA treatments ready to be released in combination with a drug like this.  Dad stressed the word coincidence.  They offered Dr. Robertson an untold sum for the patent.  Rumor was the amount was in the billions.  But the doctor didn't seem any different than when we first met him.  He did look happier.

When we pulled up to the hospital, the first thing I noticed was the red ground.  Even below the grass, in the huge clearing surrounding the hospital, it was blood red.  When I looked back at the navigation system, there was a tag that read “Bloody Rock”, right next to the location marker I was surprised the system could even find local information. Our phones had lost signal as soon as we drove over the first ridge.  Great, I thought.  The hospital was on top of a hill, smack-dab in the middle of no where.  But that might be underestimating it.

The Francis E. Seymour was a large, imposing building made of smooth, red brick.  On all four sides was a perforated metal façade that curved outwards at the tops and bottoms, with larger square-shaped holes cut for windows, and a larger, rectangular incision made for the cafeteria and its second-to-ground floor ramp.  The entrance-way was encased by a large quarter-arch that split at the bottom like a snake’s tongue, with a staircase that led out to the main parking lot.  It looked like some modern art monstrosity.

Even though the façade covered most of the roof, I could see the blades of a helicopter peeking out over the edge, and what looked a little like the rotor-top, and folded blades of another.  These guys are definitely making use of their funding, I thought.

Two

When I walked in, the lobby was empty, the lights were on low.  It was a lot warmer than outside, almost uncomfortable.  Some of the lights were on in the banquet hall.  It didn’t look like they had finished cleaning.  In the center of a room, there was a lone chair, overturned.  I walked past, to the elevators and got in.

The second floor cafeteria was dark, as the elevator went past.  But I could see a few people rummaging around in the fruit bin.  The laboratory looked like a mess.  As I ascended, I became aware of the racket coming from my brother’s floor.

At first it was a faint whisper.  But as I got closer I could make out the electronic tones.  The chimes and bells I’d heard coming from my brothers monitors were loud.  What’s more, I could here the lonely tone of EKG’s stuck on flat-line.

No on was around when the elevator jolted to a stop on Clive’s floor.  Something about the situation made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  Despite the noise, I couldn’t hear anything else.

I walked a few steps down the hall, and turned in to the AIDS wing.  It was the smell that made me stop dead in my tracks.  It was like rotting pumpkin.  But there was something else, something acrid.

I was stood at the end of the hall, maybe three feet from the corner of the nurses’ station and took it in.  The place was a mess.  I mean, it looked like someone robbed them.  A few of the curtains were pulled back.  I could see bedpans scattered around the floor; and blood on the sheets.  There was a pile of orange-red puke on the floor next to one of the beds.

I felt the overwhelming sensation of déjà vu, as I called out, “Hello?”

I stepped in farther, and almost slipped on a popped bag of saline solution.   This is too much, I thought to myself.

“Hello?!”  I called again.

No answer.

It occurred to me that I couldn’t hear any talking, no shuffling of feet.  Just the blaring alarms and chimes.  They were so loud I couldn’t think.  The buzzing was permeating my skull.  I wanted to go in and shut them off, but I was afraid I was alone.  And I could tell, without even going farther in, that something very bad happened.

But it doesn’t make sense, I thought.  I saw people in here, from our tent.  Where is everyone?  What happened?

I hadn’t seen anyone in the building; no patients, no bodies, no nurses!  Being immersed in the horrible smell, I couldn’t think about the word “vomit” without suppressing a retch that, very soon, I wouldn’t be able to suppress anymore.

So I snuck into the room, crouching and being quieter than the alarms.  Maybe I was being paranoid.  Maybe the whole wing decided to eat in the cafeteria or something…  No one was in the storage hallway that connected both entrances.  But it looked like everything inside the storage bins had been emptied.

Probably in the heat of the moment, I thought, it must have gotten even more chaotic once they kicked us all out.

I eased up the wall next to the nurses’ station and peeked around the corner, super fast.  I wanted to see the nurses huddled around a clipboard.  But no one was there when I looked.  I took another quick look just to make sure. I searched the beds, disgusted with what I found; the vomit, blood and gore.

There was blood all over the place, now that I noticed it.  I mean, I never really thought blood in a hospital would be out of place.  But the way this blood was spattered against places it normally wouldn’t be able to reach...  Like the nurses’ station.  It all gave me cause for alarm.

Charts were strewn all over.  The phones were off the hooks.  There was blood on those, too…

Maybe someone had come and killed them all, I thought.

But I quickly dismissed the idea as paranoid bullshit.  There had to be a reasonable explanation.  The whole wing was deserted.

I could see down the hall and into the west wing.  The automated doors—which were usually only opened for visitors—were propped open by an overturned wheelchair.  Beyond that, I could see it was the same as this one.  Now that I knew no one was around, I shut off all the monitors.

It took me a second to adjust to the reduction in noise.  There were still alarms going off in the wing next door.  I looked on the floor for Clive’s file, being careful not to touch any of the crap by using some gloves that were sitting on top of a table.  But I couldn’t find it.

I was about to walk back to the elevators and tell Dad what I found when I heard something move inside the storage area.  I became terrified when I realized I walked right past it without seeing anything.  I stopped breathing as all the things it could be ran through my head.

Even though every self-protective fiber in my body was screaming at me not to call out, I knew that I should; in the end, this could turn out to be something completely different.  But if this really was something like terrorism or a mob hit, or some kind of international spy thing, then maybe it was a survivor… or something—hopefully someone who can explain all this.  And, if it were something else, like a rat, or just shifting crap, then I could chuckle to myself before I left to safety; and told Dad to call the fucking cops.

When I looked in the storage area, I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.  I mean, yeah, it was trashed; yeah, there was blood.  Yeah, this is fucking creepy and I want to leave.

I sighed, “But I have to at least look.”

There were tons of trays from the shelving units strewn across the floor, but all of the gates around the shelves were closed.  The gates were solid metal, all the way up to my stomach; from there it was covered with metal mesh.  Then I saw it.

Even though the place was a mess, I could clearly see there was a space cleared in front of the unit in the center of the room where someone had thrown everything out, and closed the doors.  The swing of the doors left a trail in the rubble.  What’s more, I could see the top of a head.  Someone was hiding there.

“Hello?”  I whispered.

Whoever was in there jumped.

 “Kenny?” a strangled voice came from the middle locker.  It sounded like Clive.

“Clive?”  I watched my voice.

“Kenny!”  It was him, “Hurry! Let me out!”

I pulled at the handle, but it was locked.  There was an LCD screen with a 9-key pad and some additional buttons around it that said stuff like “OK” and “Clear”.

“I can’t,” I said, “It’s locked.  Do you know the combination?”

“No,” He said, his voice was panicked.  “Get me out!”

I shoved my fingers in-between the door and the frame and pulled as hard as I could.  I pulled so hard that the corner of the door bent outwards; but it wasn’t any closer to opening.

“Hold on,” I said.

I crouched down and used all my strength to pull the door up and off the hinges from the bottom.  It made a lot of noise, but there he was.  Clive was curled in the shelf, shivering.  I pulled him out of the bin and he gave me a big hug.

“I thought you were never going to come!”  He said.

Clive was covered with blood.  I couldn’t tell if it were his own, or someone else’s.

“Clive, what happened to you?!”  I hissed.

Clive shoved his hand over my mouth.  I was repulsed by its smell; his hand was clammy. His eyes were full of fear, and the bags under them were almost as big as Dad’s.

“Be quiet, Kenny!”  He hissed, “We need to get Avery!”

“Where is he?” I asked.

“He’s upstairs, in the cancer ward!”  He pulled my hand and we trotted back to the elevator.

As we waited for it to arrive, Clive was looking around wildly, as if something were going to pop out any second.  I kept asking him what was wrong, what happened; but he was too focused on finding Avery.

.

When we stepped out onto the sixth floor, I noticed there were bloody foot prints and smears everywhere.  Clive signaled to be quiet and walked silently over to the big double doors of the cancer ward.  Clive pushed on them, but they bumped against something and didn’t open.  I gave it the shoulder and the doors slid open enough for me to squeeze through….

It was dim inside.  Most of the standing lights had been broken, as well as some of the overheads, most of which flickered.  The smell hit me immediately.  Like rotten pumpkin, but curled, like . . . I don’t know.  Whatever it was, it made my stomach wrench.

“Jesus,” I said, covering my nose and mouth with my t-shirt.

The doors on the other side of the wing were barricaded, I noticed immediately.  I took a step in and almost tripped on someone’s arm.  I was disgusted.  I was past vomit, past surreal.

Bodies littered the ground.  Some of them had scalpels in them.  Some of them had bundles of syringes.  There was a boy who caught my eye.  He looked kind of like Avery.

I half-stepped further into the room to get a closer look.  There was a massive wound in his neck.  I realized I was in his pool of blood.  I took an involuntary step back, glass crunching below my feet, and turned towards the door.  I almost screamed when I saw her.

There was a nurse, dead.  Mouth gaping wide, her body slumped against the door.  Her head was broken, one eye cleanly removed; her skull crushed like a shell around a boiled egg.  I could see the red, scrambled mess underneath the ragged remainder of her scalp, which hung lazily over the crag.

There was a monitor stuck in the wall behind and at angle from her head.  It was one of those metal ones the doctors use for EKG machines.  The wall was splattered with blood and I could make out something that I told myself wasn’t her other eye.

There was a huge wound in her arm, about the size of my fist, like a gouge.  I couldn’t see it very well; but I could tell it wasn't what killed her.  There was something else about her.  About the way she was laying . . . .

It occurred to me that whoever had killed her could still be in the room, as the double doors were the only way out, and the woman's body was effectively blocking the exit.

“Can you see him?” Clive whispered.

I freaked and jumped back through the door.  Thank god I had a way out!

“I don’t think he’s in there.”  I told him.

His eyes fell on the puddle of blood that seeped out from under the slightly opened door.

“He has to be in there.”  Clive said, “I know he is.”

“Clive,” I told him, “Everyone’s dead in there.”

He made for the door.  But I grabbed him and pulled him away.  “No!”

Clive broke free of my grip and went inside.  I followed him quickly, hoping to change his mind before we were caught.

.

Most of the dead were kids, mostly with shaved heads, and they all seemed to be piled around the nurse’s station.  They all seemed to have head trauma.  We walked around the room, looking them in the face, trying to find Avery.

We were standing in the middle of the room, I just got finished checking a kid with hair and blood on his face when suddenly, out of the shadows, we heard a cough.  I spun around, ready to. . . well, just ready for whatever it was.

It was someone in the shadows.  I couldn’t tell from where.

“Hey guys,” A familiar voice said.

“Rodney?” Clive asked.

I could barely make him out.  But there he was, the dark shape in the corner holding something.  We stepped towards him, being careful not to walk on anyone.  Once we got closer, I was able to see he was holding Avery.  And Avery was dead.

There was a scalpel sticking out of his forehead.  It was so macabre.  The blood running from it had already clotted, the place the scalpel protruded from had become a pussy, yellow mess, god it looked like cottage cheese.  I was thoroughly disturbed now.

“What happened, Rodney?”  I asked.

He pulled Avery’s arms into a folded position, across his chest.  “They went mad.”

“Who did?” I asked.

Rodney set Avery down on the ground, beside him, and stood up.  “All of us.”

Clive stepped back then, and pulled my hand.  “Kenny . . . .”

 “They wanted to kill him.  The nurses…. They said he was going to kill us.  But they were killing each other.  I could hear them screaming from the fifth floor.  They were killing all the kids.”  Rodney stopped and held his stomach.  I noticed the blood that had seeped through his shirt; it looked black in the dim light.

“But then he turned on me.”

“What do you mean?”  I asked him.

“Kenny!” Clive hissed.

“What?”  I turned to look at him.

Clive was staring over my shoulder.  His face was filled with terror.  I looked to my side when I heard a bedpan clatter on the floor.  An orderly, about six foot three, stood up.  In the dim light, I could see a bundle of syringes sticking out of his cheek, and more in his body.  As he reached towards us, I could see the orderly’s hand was split wide open.  It looked crushed almost.  So bad I could see his bones and tendons.  His neck was leaking blood, from what I could tell was a bite wound.  There were very clear teeth imprints all around the actual gouge.

“Oh my god,” I gasped.

And his eyes were yellow.  I wanted to close my eyes and pretend this wasn’t happening when the orderly came toward us.

But Rodney was there.  He lunged forward and kicked the orderly down.  With a grunt, Rodney picked up a monitor and smashed the orderly’s skull in one blow.  It was done so fast, I wasn’t sure if it really happened.

The sound of crushing bone and tissue sickened me.  I watched as Rodney stood over the body, panting.  He looked back at me, with dull eyes.

“They come back,” Rodney said.

I looked around me, at all the bodies, and wondered if they, too, would come back.

“We should get out of here,” I said, and turned towards the door.

But neither one of them turned to follow me.

 “C’mon!” I said.

But they didn’t move.

“I can’t,” Rodney said.  “When they find out what I am, they’ll kill me, too.”

“What do you mean?”  I asked him.

Rodney walked into the light from the hallway and showed himself to us.

Clive shrieked a little; but I was so shell-shocked I don’t think I even blinked.

Rodney's eyes were glassy, and his pupils were crimson.  His face and body were covered with deep scratches.  Then there were the fist-size gouges in his sides big enough to be a bite...  At the bottom of every wound were purple, empty looking pits that pus seeped out from.  He smelled bad.

“Are you going to kill me?”  It was the only thing I could ask.  I felt nauseous.  The smell emanating from him was even worse than the corpses around me.

“I don’t think so.”  Rodney replied.  He was eyeing the open door.  “You know, I was doing okay when the door was closed.”

Clive ran over and pushed the door closed.

We just stood there, staring at each other.  I knew I shouldn’t trust him.  But he saved my life.  So this is some kind of . . . zombie thing? I thought.  I could already see there was  a big difference to between the nurses and Rodney.  Rodney was still smart.  Clive. . . .  Wait, I thought, what the fuck is going on?!

Clive walked over to a window and looked down, seeming not to care if he turned his back on Rodney.  I, only the other hand, could not look away from this . . . macabre predicament.  I was sure that, for all intents and purposes, Rodney should be dead by now—or at least screaming in pain.  But he was neither.

As if answering my unspoken questions, Rodney began to speak: “All the other people died before they became...  They bled to death, and they came back.  Or they died like Avery; and just woke up.  I don't know . . . It seems like everyone who got the cure . . . .  They came back . . . .  And they started to bite people.  And the ones who got bitten and came back; they're like zombies.”

He kicked the orderly in the head, for emphasis.

“And I didn't do either.”  Rodney's voice carried a bitter undertone. 

I noticed Clive looking at me out of the corner of his eye.  Did he remember dying?  I had the eerie feeling that I had just walked into a trap.

Rodney continued, “But I don’t understand. If I’m a zombie, I would know, right?  I mean, all these people got bit.  And they… they fucking killed each other!  And look at me!  Do you know how long I’ve been in here?  Four hours… Four fucking hours! “

He was giving me a look I couldn’t discern.  He said, “I should be dead.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Do you feel like eating anyone?”  Clive asked.

“Not particularly.”  Rodney said lightly.

I watched Rodney in the reflection of the window as I looked out.  The moon was setting, but we still had more than two hours of night left.  Six stories down was the tent I slept in.  I could see the coffee pot steaming on the camp stove from up here.

I studied Clive.  He looked calm.  Through the dried blood caked to his skin, I could see he was unharmed.  I wondered if Rodney would try to eat me.  I wondered if Clive was one of them, too.  I wondered why he could talk, and how they came back, where the bodies from downstairs went.  I wondered why they hadn't come outside yet. 

I walked over to the phone and picked it up; playing on the off-chance they’d work.  No dial tone.  I lit a cigarette and told myself to chill out.  I was safe, for the moment.

“So what the fuck is going on?”  I looked at Rodney, “What happened?”

“Do you want the long story?” He asked, “Or just the short one?”

“Just tell me what happened.” I told him.

“I went in at about midnight,” He said, “I couldn’t sleep.  I’d already found out that people were dying.  So I had to go see if Avery was okay.  But when I got there, he was in a bed with the curtains drawn.  They told me he was sick, like, almost dead sick.

“The doctors said he wouldn’t last the night.  So I sat by him, you know.  They told me everything was going wrong with him, his blood was poisoned.  His organs were shutting down.  That fucking cure wasn’t a fucking cure.  It killed him.  I mean, he looked worse than anything I could ever imagine.

“His skin was white, he was oozing blood from his eyes and his ears and I could just see it creeping out from under the sheet.  It was horrible.  All the other kids were flipping out, even though the curtains were pulled, they could tell something was going on.  They were giving him morphine.  Avery was talking all kinds of crazy shit.  I could tell he was hallucinating.  I sat there with him until they said he was going.  I watched him close his eyes and take his last breath.”

I watched Rodney’s face contort into grief.  He sniffed and held back a choking sob.  But tears still ran down his cheeks.  I wondered how any of this was possible.  I damned myself for ever setting foot in this hospital.  I wondered: What kind of idiot would build a hospital on a place called Bloody Rock?  There has to be a reason this place is called ‘Bloody Rock’.  And I’m positive it’s not a good one.

“I watched as they checked his pulse and responses.  It was twelve-thirty-three, I remember that.  Then the doctor left.  Outside the doors, there was lots of yelling and screaming.  I figured it was just a bunch of people screaming and crying over their kids.  I know I was angry, sitting next to my dead brother.  But if I’d known then what was going on, I would have run for my life.

“I would have left then, too.  But when I turned to say goodbye to Avery, he opened his eyes.  At first, I thought it was some kind of dead thing.  You know how you hear about people getting rigor mortis, losing control of their functions and twitching and stuff?  Well, I thought it was that.  But it wasn’t.  It was scary.  Avery looked at us, at all of us.  The doctors were really freaking out, then.  All of the monitors and stuff were still attached him, you know?  They were all saying he was dead.

“You could tell he was confused.  Like he didn’t know how he got there.  Then he asked, ‘Am I dead?’  It was trippy, to say the least.  All the other kids were screaming, ‘Zombie!  Zombie!’  I mean, they were practically tripping over each other to get to the door.

“When one of the kids opened the doors, we could hear people screaming from all over.  Another kid, from one of the other wings ran over to ours.  As I stood over Avery, I could hear him asking for help.  He said there were zombies.  Then there was screaming.  Lots of ‘What the hell is that?’ kind of stuff.  I turned and looked.  The doors were wide open and these two little gremlin looking kids, covered in blood, were screaming and hauling ass towards us.  The kid we’d just let in shoved the doors closed and we all jumped in to help.

“They were strong.”  He motioned over to the orderly he killed in front of us, “Chad let the first one in without knowing because the little fucker said he wanted us to protect him.  He looked normal enough.  But when Chad picked him up, the kid bit him, ripped his throat clean out.  We all forgot about the door, when the little kid came at a nurse.

“I tried to grab him, but he was biting.  So I held him by the face, like a dog, to keep his mouth away.  I threw him around a couple of times but he wouldn’t listen.  He was snarling.  That’s when I noticed his eyes didn’t look right.  I was pretty sure he was gonna try and kill me, too.  So I picked him up, put him in a neck lock, and snapped it.

“When I let the kid fall out of my arms…  It changed me.  When I noticed it was one of the kids from dinner, I kind of put it together.  Well, not exactly.  But I knew Avery was one of them, somehow.  When I looked back, he was watching me with this weird look.  I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.  The bloodshot in his eyes were so thick they looked red.  And his eye color was black.”

Rodney fell silent then, lost in thought.

“The others closed the doors again.  I saw Chad stand and charge the nurses and patients gathered around the doors.  He was frenzied.  It was hard to tell what was happening, because Chad would just grab someone and bite them, taking big pieces out of them, and they would fall, but, like, a minute or two later, they would get back up and start biting, too.

“Everyone scattered out and started hitting him with everything they could; it was a melee.  That’s when Avery got into it.  I tried to stay out of the way.  He had been watching the whole time.  But once he started, he was like a rabid animal.  He killed them all.  Then he turned to the only nurse that hadn’t been bitten yet… and he ate her.

“I wouldn’t let him near me.  But he was talking to me like normal….  So I let my guard down.  He said he was sorry, he got kinda out of control.  Everything would be okay.  He hugged me and told me he loved me.  But then, he bit me.”  Rodney was quiet for minute, then. “And he wouldn’t stop.  I didn’t want to kill him.  But I had to.  So I killed him, and then I killed the nurse before she could turn, too.  Then I hid.

“I slid down into the corner and waited to die.  But I never closed my eyes, never stopped breathing.  I've been sitting here for hours, now, wondering what to do with myself.  When I heard you downstairs, I didn't believe it at first.  I thought it was another trick.  But then I heard Clive.  When you walked in, I was ready for another fight.  But I saw you weren't bit.  I thought about saying something then.  But I knew you guys couldn't help me.  I just hope . . . .”  But he didn't continue.

I stood there, looking at him, wondering how it was to wait to die.  I looked at Avery's body, limp and still laying exactly where Rodney had laid him.

“Where are the others?” I asked.

“I've only been in here.”  Rodney told me.

I turned to Clive, “Where did everyone in your wing go?  How come there was no one in there when I came?”

“They left,” Clive said.

All of a sudden, we could hear running outside, along the hall.

“Hide!” Rodney hissed.

We ducked into the nurses’ station.  Clive crawled under an over-turned computer chair.  Rodney and I hid behind two filing cabinets.  I could only see a little of the room between the cabinet and the wall.

Standing next to Rodney, I became very aware of the way he smelled.  I could feel his blood seeping through my pants.  It was cool to the touch, and matted my pants to my thigh in a way I thought was more than a little gross.  I tried to push him away a little, but he said to be quiet and pressed against me more.

The door slammed open.

I held my breath as I watched three or four people slowly into the room.  I was scared, I realized, more scared than I had ever been in my life.  They stood in the center of the room for what seemed like hours, unmoving.

I tried to stay still, not make any noise, pressed against the filing cabinet until my leg began to cramp.  And the smell from Rodney was becoming unbearable.  I felt claustrophobic.

When they turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of a badge on one of them.  I whispered to Rodney it looked like a security guard.  But they heard me, too.  All of a sudden, they were screaming; and running towards us.  I pushed the filing cabinets on top of two of them and ran, punching the security officer to the ground as I passed.

“Clive!” I yelled.

He threw the chair away and followed us as we ran out into the hall, to the elevator.  I jammed the button so hard I almost broke, the button popping out of the countrol panel.  I shoved the button back into place and held it while the security guard came running out of the ward.

“Kenny!” Clive screamed.

I didn’t have anything to defend myself with.  But I could see the guard still had everything on his utility belt.  If I could somehow incapacitate the guard and take his weapons, then I’d have something use when we were leaving.  Rodney was on it.  He body slammed into the security guard and gouged at his eyes.

I could see the guard was scratching Rodney, but he didn’t seem to care.  I watched as he popped the guard’s eyeballs and shoved his thumbs home.  Rodney picked him up by the skull and shook him out like a sheet.  The sound of the man’s spine cracking told me he wasn’t going to get up.

I was in awe.  Even though I was horrified, I couldn’t help but empathize a little with the guard.

I heard the elevator open behind me.  Clive jumped in.

“C’mon,” He said.

“Hold it!” I told him.

“What are you doing?” Rodney asked me, as I dashed over to the dead guard and took his flashlight, nightstick, mace and handcuffs.

“We’ll need these.”  I told Rodney.  I let out a shriek when I realized his eyes had gone yellow.  “Your eyes,” I gasped.

“I know,” He said, “But don’t worry.”

He smiled, and I could see the blood on his teeth.

“Kenny!” Clive yelled.

I turned to him and saw that a nurse was staring him down—the hot one.  I turned back to Rodney, to tell him we should help, but he already took that small opportunity to jump me.  He pinned me down and started punching me.

“Rodney!”  I yelled at him, “Stop!  It’s me!”

But he didn’t.  I could hear Clive squealing in the elevator.  Could hear the elevator thumping against the sides as Clive struggled with the nurse.  I hit Rodney in the head with the flashlight so hard he flew into the railing and almost went over.

He came back screeching, mouth open, trying to grab me.  I stabbed him in the head with the short end of the nightstick; Rodney slumped back and grabbed his head.  But he wasn’t done yet; and neither was I.  Before he regained his composure, I hopped behind him and choked him with the nightstick.  He kicked and snarled as I picked him up and held him over the balcony.  When I tossed him, I made sure he’d hit something on the way down.

I had to take care of the nurse next.  She had Clive on the ground; she was snapping at him.  I pulled her off and she pushed me against the wall.  I was surprised to see the sharp gaze in her yellow eyes.  When she lunged, I side-stepped and hit her as hard as I could in the back of the head.  She didn’t get up.

I turned to Clive.  “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Clive said.

There was a loud bang, and snarling from the other side of the promenade.  More of them had come running out of the west wing.  They were mostly kids, and they were fast.  I pulled my little brother to his feet and shoved him into the elevator.  One of them almost reached us before it closed.  I could hear them pounding on the doors as we descended.

“Do you think I killed Rodney?” I asked Clive.

“Yeah.” He answered.

I gave Clive the flashlight.  We stood there, in uneasy silence, as the elevator crept its way downward.  The commotion must have been heard throughout the building, because there was a crowd gathered around the elevator on the fifth floor.  They screamed and pounded on the doors as we passed, but the elevator didn’t stop.  I took out the nightstick and tried my grip on it.

The elevator stopped on the fourth floor.  It was dark again.  And, from what I could see, so was everything below.  The elevator lights cast an eerie glow on a body lying not three feet from the door.  I was kind of freaking out at the thought of having to go through the darkness.  I could hear people screaming all around.  But this floor was quiet.  I jammed the door close button.

Before the doors closed, Dr. Robertson appeared from the shadows and stuck his arm through the door.  I jumped back, but recovered quickly enough to kick the doctor away when the door opened again.  Clive shone the flashlight all around us, to make sure he was the only one there.  Dr. Robertson stood up and approached us again.  This time, he kept back from the doors.  They started closing again.

“Wait!” He said.

He still had his lab coat on.  There was blood on the bottom of his coat, and on his hands, but otherwise, he didn’t appear to be bitten.  I stuck my foot in the door.  “Why?”

“Because you need me,” He said.  “I’m the only one who can reverse the cure.”

“No you’re not,” I told him, “After they pick up your research, if this place still exists, there’ll be hundreds of people working to reverse the little freak show you’ve got here.”

“He’s one of them!”  Dr. Robertson cried, pointing at my little brother.

“I know.”  The elevator doors began to close again.

“Please take me with you!” He begged.

I sighed and felt like giving in; mainly because I really just wanted to get out.  I knew the longer I stayed in one place, the likelier it would be for me to get trapped; and the harder for me to watch both my brother and my backs.  I didn’t want to add the doctor to the equation.

As I stood there contemplating this, the doctor stared at Clive and me.  He could show us the quick way, even drive us out of here.  I quickly disregarded the thought of leaving my father behind.  How much was this doctor worth?  My life?  Clive’s?  And who says he can reverse this?  Who says he isn’t one of them?  What if Clive can’t be saved?  But what if he could?

I told the doctor, “If you do anything funny.  And I mean anything.  If you get us close to dead one too many times, if you make too much noise, if you don’t pull your own weight: I’m gonna handcuff you to a pipe; and you won’t be going anywhere.”

The doctor nodded and said, “But, I need to get my research.”

“Why don’t you have your research with you?”  I asked, “Your research is the most important thing you have and it’s not on you?  Where the fuck is your head at?”

“You know,” Doctor Robertson pointed out, “Berating me isn’t going to help the situation.”

“Well, then let me say in retort that we need to get the fuck out of here as quick as possible.  It’s not safe to get your research.  You can come back for it later.”

“I need to get my research.”  The doctor stressed.

“Only if we can wait here,” I told him.  “Besides, if it were us who truly needs you, why does it seem that you need us more?”

“Can we not argue semantics?”  Clive grumbled.

Dr. Robertson said, “You must come with me.  It’s on the other side of the lab.”

“Are there any on this floor?”  I asked him.  I considered the fact that we had been pretty loud.  But, so were those screaming lunatics upstairs.

“I locked three in the break room.”  He said, “There are two more.  The rest are dead”

“Are you sure?”  I asked him.

“I think so,” Dr. Robertson answered.  “But we have to go back to my office.  I need my research.  I wasn’t able to make a copy of my data before one of the ones from downstairs broke in.  But, this floor is secure… I think.”

Clive shrieked, “Can anymore get in?!”

“No,” The doctor said, “The doors in the stairwells are all handles except for the first floor, which was the push-bar.”

Great, I thought, Let’s just give them an easy way to get out.

I pulled the emergency stop and stepped out of the elevator.  Clive followed close behind.  I directed Clive to examine his arms and legs for bite marks as I stood there and looked around.  It was still dark, but I had gotten used to it without the flashlight.  At least, out there, in the light well; I knew once we walked away, it would get much, much darker.  Everything in front of the elevator seemed to be a series of laboratories, all smashed.

“Do you have anything for a weapon?”  I asked the doctor.

Dr. Robertson looked genuinely at a loss, “Weapon?”

“Well, how did you kill all of these people?” I asked, “You didn’t use kung fu, did you?”

“I don’t know Kung Fu,” The doctor said.

“So…?”  I let the question hang.

The other elevator went past us, then, going up.

“They’re gonna get us!” Clive almost screamed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” The doctor said, “I’m sure they don’t know how to use the elevators.”

We heard the elevator ding above us.  We listened, maybe for the press of the button, the doors sliding shut.  I kind of expected it to happen, actually.  I was almost certain that they would have opened the doors to the elevator shaft when we made our get away; that they would tear of the maintenance hatch and kill us both.  But after a couple minutes, standing there, listening to them scream and snarl, nothing came.  Maybe they didn’t know how to use an elevator after all.

“Even so,” I said, “We should probably make sure there’s a door to run through… just in case.”

“My office is right there,” He said, pointing to a hall behind the elevators.  “There are fire escapes on both ends of the hallway.”

As we walked into the hallway, Clive pulled my arm and pointed at the elevators.  They were all piled into the elevator, clogging it completely.  The things screamed in ignorant rage at each other.  Of course, they weren’t really saying anything.  They were just a group of screaming, slobbering beasts.  Some of them were jumping over the railings to get to us.  I wondered if we would meet them later.  They looked so different from Clive or Rodney.  As the darkness closed in on us, I wondered if Clive was resisting The Urge on purpose or if it hadn’t actually set in yet.

I looked over my shoulder what seemed like every second.  Most of the doors were closed and locked; all the lights were off, of course.  And it looked just like every other floor, ransacked.  Some of the office windows were broken.  There was blood inside one, handprints and smears all over.  In the center of the room, twisted in a mess of blinds and office equipment, lay someone in a lab coat.

Her head was twisted towards us in a way I knew was unnatural.  Her face was covered with scratches, and her neck was eaten through in one place.  The woman’s head almost looked torn off, the way she was laying.  I covered Clive’s eyes before he could look, and, lord, when I touched his skin, it was cold.  That was when I started to freak out; more than when I found Rodney and he tried to eat me.  I looked at the Doctor, and he looked back at me with the same terror.

We passed a closed door with an axe guarding the handle.  Inside I could hear faint thumping.  But I didn’t want to get too close.

“That’s the break room,” Dr. Robertson said quietly.

His office was against the wall, on the south side of the building, the front side.  It had a window; and I was relieved to see a hint of dawn on the horizon.  As soon as we stepped in, I pulled the curtains on the window to the hall, locked the door, and silently moved a filing cabinet in front of the window.  Dr. Robertson hopped in front of the computer and entered his password in the screen saver.  As the Doctor did whatever it was that he had to, I looked Clive over.  His feet were bleeding.  But, he still looked alright.

“So . . .” I addressed the Doctor in a whisper, “Why is my little brother still alive?”

“You know?” Clive asked.

“You’re a walking corpse, little brother.”  I told him, “And, as much as I love you, I’m scared that you’ll turn on me.”

“I’m not like Rodney.”

“Who’s Rodney?”  The doctor asked.

“He’s . . .” I forgot the name, “He’s . . .”

“Avery’s brother,” Clive helped.

“Oh,” the Doctor said, “But, he’s not a patient.”

“What did you do, Dr. Robertson?”  I asked him, “How come Clive and Rodney were smart?  How did they come back?”

“Every test I had performed, every analysis told me this was going to work in humans.  So, I don’t know.  This sort of thing has never happened before.  Even with the new enzyme package, this wouldn’t, ever be possible.”  As the doctor was speaking, he rummaged around in his briefcase, extracting a blank disc that he shoved into the computer.

“Am I a zombie?”  Clive asked.

“Zombies can’t be self-aware.”  Dr. Robertson replied immediately, as if he’d already considered it.

“So what is this?”  I asked, “Are they in some kind of coma?”

Dr Robertson replied, “That’s ignorant.  Even the worst somnambulists don’t run around eating people--”

Clive was becoming offended.

He continued, “And, even if they were sleep walking, how do you sleep walk after you die?!”

“There has to be a reasonable explanation for this.”  I said.

“You’re right, there has to be.”  Dr. Robertson told me, “But when the first one got up, we ran him through the gauntlet.  There have been many cases of mistaken death.  Many.  We reasoned: this all could have been due to some other, underlying disease we had no knowledge of.  Each one of took us turns inspecting his heart and lungs with a stethoscope.  There are animals that go from eighty beats a minute to eight, but a human can only drop down to fifteen beats a minute.  And when they do that, they’re asleep.  This kid didn’t have a pulse; we listened for whole minutes at a time.

“If I’d have known what they were, I would have immobilized and quarantined him.  I could have locked everyone in the wings.  Anything could have turned them.  Could have been any combination of drugs we were already giving them.  Maybe one of the DNA treatments Drug Corp. had been so insistent I give them.  Maybe it was the something in the cake.  How could I have known?  I’ve been going crazy over it ever since.”

“So, what did you do instead?”  I asked him.

“We tested his verbal capacity and reasoning skills and… he did okay, although he seemed a little slow.  We thought maybe we’d got it wrong.”  The doctor chuckled slowly.  “But his temperature was ninety-point-two degrees Fahrenheit.  Yet he was exhibiting zero lividity.  We even checked his toes.  In fact, he didn’t seem to be the slightest bit uncomfortable.  I was going to run him through a full physical, but I was called upstairs, to the lab.  I had my assistant perform it.”

Doctor Robertson shivered then, tears streaked his face.  I could tell he was trying to hold it back.  “She was only 22!”  He gagged.  “What did she do to deserve this?!  I should have transferred the call.  But, I only went upstairs for a few minutes.”

Dr. Robertson looked back at the screen, hit a key and switched out the discs.

“The hematologist was standing there, waiting for me.  The kid’s glomerular filtration ratio was insane.  First off, well . . . . His kidneys should have been decomposing by then.  His whole body was filled with toxins at levels only secreted when the body shuts down.  He should have been a frosty-lipped corpse in the basement.  Do you understand that?  There wasn’t a single explanation for any of this.  I should have called Lonna and told her to strap him down then.  I should have issued a code red and had the whole place locked down!  But I was too fascinated.  No, I was shocked.  I didn’t know what to do.”

“We were just about to look at the blood in a microscope when I got the phone calls.  One was from Rachel, in the fifth floor ward, across from where your brother was.  She was calling to tell me that all of but two of them had died in the west wing, and only one in Clive’s.  She told me that the other wards we overflowed to were reporting similar numbers.  And Clive’s friend, Avery, in the cancer ward was sick.  I hadn’t heard the code blues because I was too intent on unraveling this enigma.  But, even if I had…. there was nothing I could do anyway.”

He sighed, “I was… appalled.  I was scared.  What I first thought was a rash of food poisoning turned out to be something even worse. Even though there was no way to tell this was going to happen, no matter how many tests I did, I knew I would be held accountable for it all.”

“Those fucking bastards!” He screamed.

Clive and I both jumped, startled by his sudden outburst.

“The second call was from the MRI tech who told me it looked like his lungs were forming hypostatic congestions.  Since he was on the same floor as Lonna, I told him to go help my assistant get the patient relaxed and into his bed.  That was a nice way of saying, ‘medicate him and strap him down’.

“That’s when it started.  I heard Lonna scream my name.  It echoed up the light well.  The hematologist and I immediately ran down the stairs and came to her.  And, when we got there, it was astounding.

“The boy was looming over her, biting her neck.  From what I could see, he was trying to eat her!  I noticed the tech. out of the corner of my eye, hiding in the opposite corridor, holding a fire ax.  He nodded to me, then rushed forward and started to choke the kid with the thing.  The boy went wild, scratching and clawing.  The hematologist tried to help get the boy under control while I rushed to see if Lonna could be helped.  But she was gone.  We locked the kid in an examination room and got on the phones.  The hematologist went to bandage his scratches...  I didn’t see him until later.”

“You know . . .  A part of me wonders if--”

The computer spit out the CD and the doctor was about to put it in his briefcase.

“Let me keep it,” I said.

Doctor Robertson looked at me warily, “No, I think I’ll keep it in my briefcase, thank you.”

I didn’t want to fight.  But I didn’t want to risk having the doctor drop his suitcase; it was cumbersome, and I thought—if those files are as important as he said they were—he should have put it in his pockets.  There was a middle ground here.

“How about making me a copy, then?”  I asked, “While you finish your story?”

The doctor scoffed.  “What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m just gonna hold it.”  I pointed to my cargo pockets, “It’s a perfect fit, and you know it’s going to stay with me the whole time.”

“What would you do with it if I die?”  The doctor asked.

“Give it to the CDC, and make sure they credit you for all of this.”  I told him, “Not just the good stuff.  But, yes, I solemnly swear on my life that your research will get to people who want to help.”

“What if he turns on us?”  The doctor said, meaning Clive, “You should be careful who you trust.”

“If he turns, I’m prepared for what I have to do.”  I said it cold, like how I would need to be if the time ever came.  “But if he doesn’t turn on us, then we don’t turn on him, okay?  He’s still my brother.”

Clive stared at both of us the whole time.

“Okay.”  The doctor said.  He even smiled.  We watched as he put another disc in the computer.  “Where were we?”

“The kid in the examination room,” Clive helped.

“So we locked the kid in the examination room, and put Lonna’s body on a stretcher.  I tried to call the receptionist, so she could use the intercom system.  But she didn’t pick up.  So Bart, the MRI technician, and I picked up the phones in neighboring rooms and made the calls ourselves.  They had no idea why we asked them to strap down dead people.  And when I tried to explain I got a mixed reaction.  Mostly, they thought I was playing a joke on them.  I was completely frustrated by the second call.  Bart told me he wasn’t having any success, either.  So we stopped.

“Bart convinced me that we should stick together for safety, but it seemed kind of ridiculous.  Lonna, killed by some deranged, dead kid… This whole thing seemed ridiculous.  We checked on the kid, who was screaming and trying to break through the reinforced glass we have in the exam rooms.  The windows were the kind with the wire in them; so I knew the kid would be there a while.

“Bart accompanied me back to the lab, where I transferred all of my data, via the network, to the computer, here.  I was finished and about to go back to my office when we got the first phone call.  The kids were starting to wake up again.  We told them, again, ‘strap the kids down.’  But it was already too late.

“What we didn’t know, was that Lonna had come back sometime during the transfer.  She had let the boy out of the exam room, and they began to take people on the floor below us.  The sounds were drowned out in the lab, by all of the equipment.  It wasn’t until we lost the lights that we heard it.  I’m still not sure what caused it.  I haven’t gone down to look, but I’d wager it was some equipment malfunctioning.  There were only six people working downstairs, plus Lonna and the kid.

“The phone rang again, it was the fifth floor, wanting to know what was happening.  I was going to reply when, all of a sudden, we saw the hematologist running at full speed towards the break room.  Behind him were the X-Ray tech and Lonna.  Bart and I jogged up, to see if we could help, but we realized it was a blood bath.  Bart was the one who locked the door with the axe.”

The first CD that I was to hold popped out, the doctor put it in a slim case and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said.

By way of reply, the doctor grunted and put another disc in the tray.  He continued, “I wanted to stay and hide.  But Bart wanted to go outside, and find help.  He was bit, I noticed.  We ended up arguing about what to do.  I told him that, if he left, he could spread it; but he didn’t seem to care.  Then he left.  Just opened the door and walked out.  So I closed it and locked it.

“It was horrible, really.  No more than twenty minutes passed when I started hearing the screaming and banging from upstairs.  It was enough to scare me under the desk.  After a while, it wasn’t as loud.  The sounds from the break room took over.  But, underneath it, I could hear someone in the hall.  I thought, maybe, it was Bart coming back to get me.  But when I opened the door, another one of them was standing there, looking at the office right across from me.  Somehow, she found me.

“It was Connie, the nurse from radiology.  I closed the door, but she came through the window.  She was a disgusting mess, leaking coagulated blood from a gaping wound in her neck.  I crushed her skull with a paperweight while she was climbing through the window, and she fell at my feet.  I didn’t move for what seemed like hours, too scared of abandoning my hiding place just to run into a group of zombies.  To be perfectly honest, I didn’t know what to think when I heard Shane, upstairs.”

The doctor was referring to when I was upstairs, calling out to anyone; looking for Clive.

“I thought you were going to die, quite honestly.”  The doctor said to me.
“Thanks,” I said.  Luckily for me, I thought, I didn’t die.  But am I going to get out?

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.

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.

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?

In the beginning, I wanted whole-heartedly to just step aside, and lift up the idea of a "Woman-led Revolution!"

But some things happened. Corrine Gould, Deja Gould and Cheyenne Zepeda (Gould) came for me in private messages and pretty much destroyed that bridge.

I was pretty shocked at being attacked off the bat by these people who seem so nice in public. In fact, I was never contacted officially by either organization.... Just the Gould's through private messages... probably the most unofficial way you could possibly get in touch with someone. [Is there a less official way?]

I was also disappointed, because our stated missions are very similar; and I thought we would be able to work cooperatively on a project or mission, together.

It concerned me a lot. Raised some red flags. Like, I've said before, I eat [jerks] for breakfast. I have a strong background in research, specifically legal research. But I can usually track down anything. Anything you want. Anything kind of information. You want a person? Need me to give them a message?

I got you. That's what I do, boo.

So I looked more closely at the Confederated Villages of Lisjan, INC. ("CVL"); and Sogorea Te Land Trust, INC. ("STLT"); and I identified several core weakness in their administration. But the lack of transparent governence of what are supposedly public corporations was what struck me the most.

Namely,

• No public elections for officers. Where's the election announcements, or results?
• No list of groups in the Confederacy. No Articles of Confederacy signed by the Parties to The Confederacy.
• Governing Body/Board meetings non-existent or not publicized. No minutes available.
• History of hijacking causes [Glen Cove], and obstructionist behavior [West Berkeley], resulting in legal fees and costs that have to be paid by other tribes, and city governments.
• No land in title to Sogorea Te Land Trust, despite that being their stated Mission. Identifying several places where gardens are being grown, but those lots are not owned by The Trust, they look like they've been co-opted, in my opinion.
• Lack of timely responsiveness to official requests for information. Just lack of responsiveness in general.
• Very little information about CVL or STLT available publicly through their website--more time spent selling their image than producing meaningful, educative content, despite having paid staff and a large cadre of volunteers with the skills to do it. [This is a big deal, actually. When you look at how much information Tribal Governments and even smaller Non-Profit Organizations put up on their websites.]
• The fact that Lisjan isn't even an Ohlone word. It's a Maidu place name for Pleasanton, California. This almost seems nit-picky, but it bears more weight when you consider the nearest Maidu-speaking group lives ~100 miles North of Pleasanton.
• Other historical and factual inaccuracies (like misrepresenting the location of the West Berkeley Shellmound.)

So, after thinking about how to respond for a couple months. I decided to tell you all of this.

And then, I went back home (like Corrine Gould told me to do) and I brought back pictures of our Tribal Elections for Chairperson and Secretary/Treasurer so I could show you what a legitimate Tribal Government looks like.

And some of you replied, and some of you wanted alternatives to Paying Shuumi.

So here we are.

I am not affiliated with, or paid by, any of the organizations mentioned in any portion of this article.

Considering Alternatives to Paying Shuumi

When we consider alternatives to paying Shuumi; we must examine Why we want to pay Shuumi first.

Let's go over 6 common reasons why people want to pay Shuumi:

Reason 1: It's Trendy

Giving is Trendy. Paying Shuumi has become popular. Everyone wants to engage in performative actions that require relatively little work and cost.

But, work a little harder, here. You're off to a great start.

Try doing some research and find a local organization that has a clear project which needs funding. I'm talking about a legit proposal:

• Goals that are achievable; Objectives which are tangible, and measurable.
• Information about existing Sources of Funding, Proposed Sources, Fundraising Activities
• Timeline which defines Expected Dates of Completion, Deadlines for parts and all of the project. Planning Rubric.
• Expected Outcome of the project as a, tangible, measurable thing.
• Any planned follow-up, or Phase 2, etc.

I would look for projects which focus on habitat restoration, because that has everything to do with bringing back Native Plants and girding against the very real, and ever-faster rising seas.

My one recommendation would be to talk to Franciso Da Costa, of Environmental Justice Advocacy (based in the SF Peninsula.) He will know of several worthy projects, that are not just environmental, that you would probably be interested in, if you're interested in this.

Reason 2: Guilt

You're no good to us if you just wallow.

Hey--I mean, you killed us. You put us in boarding schools. Tried to breed the savage out of me--I mean, us. Did horrible things with our bodies, before and after we were dead... You created every facet of the country around us for your personal pleasure and privilege, which, sickly, included what you did to us.

It's inconceivably dark, and gross, and bloody, and horrifying. There was screaming. And flames. And death.

Merciless, brutal, painful, agonizing death.

And, not the quiet kind.

The screaming, shrieking, babies crying, bones crunching, death whimpering kind of death that feels like you're gripping an ice cold sponge with white knuckles and you can't tell when you started holding your breath, but it burns, now that you think of it all.

I get it.

You should feel a least little guilty for what your grandfathers, great-grandfathers, great-great-great-grandfathers did. Pretty much any white person who can tie their lineage back to America in the 1850's is at least 1/8 guilty.

But it's the Corporations, Cities and Local Governments who feel the greatest burden to participate in this optic-driven display of platitude.

This is a cycle that needs to be broken.

You've already done the first step. Which is acknowledging your implicit participation and benefit from the aforementioned country created for your personal privilege and pleasure.

But, don't hang around in guilty town too long, there's work to be done.

If you're feeling guilty, read more. Try to understand the struggles of today, learn about the things you take for granted, consider devoting some of your time to the service of others.

Meals on Wheels is great. Local Animal Shelters are fun. Senior Centers always need help. I'm not kidding. These are all great choices to help you help yourself by helping other people.

Cities can start by building housing for Native American, their descendants, and everyone else who is homeless. They can also make cooked meals available at least one a day, and provide shelf-stable goods for the rest of the day. Counties can provide health services. Regular citizens can express their interest at council meetings, and volunteer to help get it done.

Start there. See the positive changes from devoting yourself to service; then re-evaluate where you're at and check out what you can do to help, more specifically, now that you're running on all cylinders.

Reason 3: To Support the Woman-Led Revolution!

This is all about women; and the woman-led revolution. I know I present all the way like a big, hairy, scary man. But I'm not. I'm an ally, and a safe person. And I live my life to advocate for people who get shit on all the time. And that includes anyone who identifies as a woman. Whom the zeitgeist seems to despise, because every American putdown has something to do with putting down women. Which is just sexist, and wrong; and I wish I had a list of equivalent phrases to use. (Because I actually enjoy vulgarity--don't judge.)

Women have always been more calm, more measured, more considerate of group dynamics, and have always been the voice of reason in my experience working in large groups, and non-profit corporate atmospheres.

And I want to do what I can to boost the confidence of the Strong Women in hiding around me, as well. Which is every woman, really.

This is not lip service; I really believe this.

And I do by this including women in the decision-making process; actively seeking their opinion, and ideas, and listening to them. Breaking out of the male-driven workplace and the male-centric decision-making and leadership process is something that I can have an influence on; because usually people end up looking at me to lead in a group....

And that's where I have the opportunity to turn, and look at her, and ask, "What do you think about this?" And, I tell you, she always has a completely different perspective and a better way to solve the problem. (Men, please. Just shut up, and stand aside sometimes.)

So this whole entire situation is really throwing me for a loop. Because I want to support the Woman-Led Revolution! Badly.

So my recommendation for this is to find projects which will nurture the youth. Like the:

• East Oakland Youth Development Center.
• Operation Ceasefire Partners in Oakland and Richmond.
• GLIDE SF
• Larkin Street Youth Services (SF)
• The ManKind Program, at the Center for Domestic Peace (San Rafael)
• HomeFirst Services (Milpitas)
• On The Move Bay Area
• VOICES Youth Programs

In addition, you can also purchase or donate money towards scholarships at other local programs for youth.

Reason 4: You Want to Do Something for Native Americans

We do not all share money. If you give your money to one corporation, there's no guarantee that will actually have the affect you wanted it to have when you "paid your land tax". It's not that easy.

You need to focus on addressing the systemic issues fundamental to our present day disposition.

Use your money and power and privilege--and power of privilege--to affect some change, now. The question is: which part do you want to address? Which part can you affect?

This is more of a "Circle of Influence" question than anything else. But the point is, pick things which are intertribal, and which will help everyone.

• Friendship House San Francisco
• The Intertribal Friendship House of Oakland
• YOUR Local Intertribal Friendship House
• The California Indian Museum and Cultural Center
• International Indian Treaty Council
• Native American AIDS Project
• American Indian Child Resource Center
• Native Americans in Higher Education and Mentorship

Reason 5: You Want to Decolonize This Place

Oh, you'd like deconstruct the modern colonial society we call America? Aha, comrade...

Participate in your government and take it over from the inside-out. Use the Hostile Corporate Take-Over method. Stock those board rooms, and council chambers. One petition, one vote, one person at a time.

You're only playing identity politics because you're not savvy enough to play party politics... yet. You need to upgrade your game. There's a difference between organizing for change and looking like a pitchfork, and tiki-torch carrying mob.

Read Robert's Rules of Order. Learn how to use the process in your favor. You can play card games like Bridge or Rummy to get the idea of meetings work. Because Council Meetings are turn-based, basically.

Use the Open Mic part of the Council Meetings to say something meaningful, and actionable.

Stock the committees with your people. Show up to every meeting. Talk to your elected officials. But be respectful. Seriously. You have to learn how to work with people you hate to get things done. Don't snipe in private messages because it hurts your integrity when someone comes out with receipts of you calling someone a "f---ing karen", or something.

I actually was taught all of this by a Strong Woman named Beck Stroud.

Reason 6: You Want to Resist!

Support actions by providing Medical Services, Ambulatory Services, Providing Gas Masks, Faceguards, Fresh water, Ice, Food, Tents, Blankets, Clothing. Medical supplies like bandages, ice packs. Rides to and from public transit/out of danger.

Show up to the actions and stay on the outside, let people know who you are, and where you are, they will come to you, make sure you are wearing bright colors, and are clearly not a part of any melee.

Train to be a National Legal Guild, Legal Observer.

Donate money to organizations providing Bail Money, and Legal Fees Support for the actions you believe in. But be very careful any time you give money. Make absolutely sure you know where it goes, and what it will be used for.

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.

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:

• 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.

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.

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.

• 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.

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.

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)

Let us know how you use the 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.

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)

Let us know how you use the Shellmound Model!

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.)

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

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

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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...

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.

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.

Towards a Theory of Digital Necropolitics

Link: https://escholarship.org/uc/item/1059d63h

A dissertation written by Francesca A. Romeo, in 2021; and submitted for partial satisfaction of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Film and Digital Media, at UC Santa Cruz.

This dissertation examines the intersections of technology, human rights, and "testimony through representations of the dead, dying, disappeared or wounded body."

It starts with an examination of the testimony through intimation, like Facebook Live Streams of police murders of black men.

Includes the examples how images of the murders of Oscar Grant, Stephon Clark, Eric Garner, (and too many more) stood as an intimate testimony that galvanized a community of people who are still being brutalized, and executed, by the police. And these images also served as a counter-narrative to the lies Police, City and other Officials would have told us about why these black men died.

The power of these images, and videos, the way that these people documented their lives: let the audience experience what it was really like to be the "other", at the hands of injustice and inequity.

These testimonies are powerful tools that can be used to help communities mourn, and harness the outrage, and energy behind social movements, and changes in policy.

This dissertation has three chapters. All of which are eminently relevant today.

1. Networked Testimony as Necroresistance: Social Media and the Shifting Spectacle of Lynching in America
2. Digital Decolonialism: Mapping the Personal and Collective Necropolitics of MMIW
3. Open Source Investigations as Practice: The Forensic Aesthetics of Post-Human Testimony

Whether or not they are read in order, or even all together, this is definitely a Next-Gen Document for anyone who's working in the Social Media BLM, MMIW, Anti-Racist, and other Social and Political Movement Spheres.

Read the article, for free, on eScholarship.org, https://escholarship.org/uc/item/1059d63h

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.

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

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.

"Lisjan" has been referred to as a Traditional Ohlone Village Site, in East Oakland.

Both the San Leandro Creek, and San Lorenzo Creek bear the name of "Lisjan" creek.

But "Lisjan" isn't even an Ohlone word.

"Lisjan" is what Nisenan People call the city of Pleasanton, California.

And, just to be clear: Pleasanton wasn't called "Pleasanton" until the 1860's. Up to that point, it was called "Alisal", or "Alizal", or "El Alizal", or "Alisal Rancheria". And, before that, Alisal was the Bernal Rancheria.

And Nisenan People are not Maidu People. They're totally seperate tribes.

You could say, the present day Nisenan capitol is Nevada City, California....

The "definition" of Lisjan, a Nisenan Word...

In 1929, A.L. Kroeber published "The Valley Nisenan", which contained an expansive, and categorized Nisenan vocabulary; and a decent explanation of phonetics. However, this was only a short list, which did not contain Place Names. But, this book is an indication of the linguistic study and research going on behind the scenes, in California, in the early 20th century.

It wouldn't be until 1966, that Hans Jørgen Uldall, would publish "Nisenan Texts and Dictionary", with William Shipley. This volume includes some very adult stories. So, beware. But, there are Nisenan-English, and English-Nisenan dictionaries in the back.

Uldall's dictionary contains the entry for "Lisjan"; as a Place Name for Pleasanton, California.

But, how did that name, get all the way up to Nisenan territory, 100 miles away from Pleasanton? And 45 years after Harrington's interviews? Why is "Lisjan" being touted as a traditional Ohlone Village Site in deep East-Oakland, if "Lisjan" is another name for Pleasanton?

J.P. Harrington's "Chochenyo Field Notes" (1921)

One of the most-cited references in Ohlone History...

In 1921, J.P. Harrington performed a Language Survey of Native Americans in the East Bay. Harrington gathered numerous languages during this time, including the "Chocheño" language; which is known as the East Bay Ohlone language, today. Despite being deeply flawed, and extremely sus at times, this document continues to be a primary influence on mainstream discussions about Ohlone History in the San Francisco Bay Area.

One of Harrington's interviewees was a man by the name of Jose Guzman. Guzman was interviewed, along with a man named "Angelo", and a third man who is known as "informant"--presumably, Harrington's fixer. Francisca is another interviewee who appears separately from Jose and Angelo, most times.

As a digital file this document is 2.3 gigabytes large. It has 355 pages of original scans. It is entirely hand-written in cursive. [J. Alden Mason's "Plains Miwok, Chocehnyo Field Notes", from 1916, actually are written in cursive.] And uses a mix of Chochenyo, Spanish, and English (in that order.)

This volume is incredibly informative. Even though, a good portion of the information provided by Jose Guzman, and Angelo become problematic in many places--when viewed in context with later anthropological work, and the lack of clear attribution to a speaker (if any) in many of the entries. This is a problem with Harrington, really.

A majority of contemporary work on East Bay Ohlone People cite J.P. Harrington's "Chochenyo Field Notes", from 1921.

This document is never more than one step removed from almost any article or research paper.

But who's actually read it? As daunting as these tomes look in the beginning: I have to be honest, and tell you, it's not as bad as it seems. 355 pages of hand-written notes goes kind of quickly if you can hang with the kind of Spanglish that's spoken on many a rez, today.

It's easy to get a feel for the personalities of the interviewees by how their interviews progress; and even the type of setting. Some interviews were taken at gatherings. There are write-ups of methods of fabrication for food and tools; songs; as well as old stories, passed down to Jose Guzman. Harrington's hand-writing also changes, depending on the speed of the information he's being given, and whether or not he's having a good day. Sometimes, he had to switch pens, until ultimately finding a pencil.

In the beginning, Harrington focuses on the basics. Where are you from? What's the name of your tribe? Have you heard of these people? Can you tell me the history of this place?

Harrington wouldn't ask twice about something the same day. He would circle back to it again, on another day.

As his notes progress, the words move to phrases. The lists become Chocheño lists, with Spanish or English translation.

This is how "Lisjan" kept popping up.

Harrington's Synthesis of Chocheño VS. The Way Chocheño Was Actually Being Spoken

Aside from where the notes explicitly said who the speaker was, or whether or not the interviewees agree, it's difficult to tell the difference between Harrington's own ideas and synthesis of Chocheño; and the Chocheño language as it was actually spoken.

The following entry shows how Harrington took a variation of the phrase "makin miwikma" (we are good people), and applied it to "lisjan", to form "lisjanikma"--which, to Harrington's understanding of Chocheño, means "lisjan people".

makin lisjanikma, we are lisjanes. approved lisjanikma but could not get tongue around it."

The result was a valid form of the word. But not a word which was actually in use; or even really pronounceable.

This would continue on the next page, with:

makin Jinijmin, somos muchachos, cannot say *makin jinijminka inf. tells me clearly

'aji jinijmin mak[n]ote, puros muchachos estamos aqui"

Hand-writing is unclear for "mak[n]ote", "mak[in]ote", "mak[s]ote", "mak['n]ote"...

This is when I started suspecting there may have been drinking involved in some of these later sessions with Jose Guzman and Angelo. (Because it looks like they're having fun, and getting kinda goofy at times.) The informant's answer seems to say more about the philosophy, or [machismo] culture, of the group being interviewed. I can actually see it playing out:

You can't just say, "We're some men."
You have to say, "Puros muchachos estamos aqui!"

It was at this point, that I started noticing the strong Spanish-language influence in many of these examples of Chocheño given to Harrington by Chocheño speakers.

References to "Lisjan"

In the first few pages, we find an entry that says the "Indian Name" of the Chocheños is "Lisjan".

This may seem like an authoritative, and all-encompassing reference. But the specifics change over time.

In the next entry, we find out that San Jose Mission Indians were also called "los viejos cristianos".

We also find out that Jose Guzman references San Jose Mission Indians this way, as well. No location information is given yet. But that changes.

Soon, there are distinctions made between who is, and who isn't Lisjan.

On page 95 of the PDF, a paragraph begins with "lisjanes were the San Jose." It goes on to say that, neither the Doloreños, nor the Clareños, were Lisjanes.

This entry includes a little more information about location. It states that the name Lisjan covered up as far as San Lorenzo. This is interesting, because the very first entry said Lisjan is the "Indian Name" of the Chocheños.

It's also interesting, because the Chocheño-speaking Indians at San Lorenzo were called "Los Nepes". Which means, they were considered a completely different group by Harrington's interviewees.

Unfortunately, this entry only gives us a rough northern boundary to a possible Lisjan "territory", certainly not enough information to pin to a certain geographic region. This also means that "Lisjan" was definitely not located in present-day Oakland, at all.

The next entries that we see, are on pages 105 and 106. While the phrases "yo so lisjan", and "we are lisjanes" are present; so is a real problem.

There is no distinction between the words and phrases that are actually used/spoken in Chocheño--and given to Harrington; and, the words and phrases J.P. Harrington created, or invented, on his own, and "pitched" to his informant, and interviewees.

Using the information found in Harrington's notes, I prepared the following visual aids.

I wanted to find the answers to a number of questions I had:

1. Where is Lisjan? Is it in Oakland, Pleasanton, or somewhere else?
2. Who are the Lisjanes? Are they a specific group, or family?
3. Regarding what Angelo said about a Northern Boundary for Lisjan: is it possible the boundaries for Lisjan fall within the historic bounds of Mission San Jose?

Where is Lisjan? Is it in Oakland, Pleasanton, or somewhere else?

[If this is the only document you're going by....] And, if the Northern bounds of the name "Lisjan", were located just before San Lorenzo, that means that:

1. Lisjan was not located in Oakland.
2. Lisjan was not bound by the historical Mission San Jose property lines.
3. Pleasanton was probably not called "Lisjan" by locals.

Who are the Lisjanes? Are they a specific group, or family?

Not much light is shed on who the Lisjanes are. While Jose Guzman probably declared himself Lisjan; it's unclear the extent of Angelo's affiliation to the name. At one point, one man touches his chest and tells Harrington that he is Lisjan in name, but his heart is from somewhere else.

Does this mean that Lisjan is somehow a transitory, or new affiliation based on where someone lives, now? Is this person simply saying something akin to, "I left my heart in San Francisco?" Or, "My heart yearns for home?" Or even something like, "This heart was made somewhere else; my blood pumps the blood of my ancestors, from a different place than here?"

We are told that the San Jose's are Lisjan. The indian name for Chocheños from Mission San Jose are Lisjan. Indians from Santa Clara, and Dolores are definitely not Lisjan. Los Nepes aren't Lisjan, either. And a tribe, from Sunol, the name of which no one could remember, was never affiliated with Lisjan.

This was one of the reasons I began to suspect that the bounds of Lisjan could be tied to the property lines of Mission San Jose.

But, alas, no matter which San Lorenzo you draw the Northern boundary of the name Lisjan upon, they always exceed the extent of mission property lines.

This leaves me with some unanswered questions and some cool maps.

Stay tuned.

References:

• The Valley Nisenan; Kroeber, Alfred L.; UC Press, Berkeley, 1929
• Survey of California and Other Indian Languages - California Language Archive - Nisenan
• J.P. Harrington "Chochenyo Field Notes" (1921)

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.

But these are the very places and things we should be proud of. A physical, tangible link between us, our ancestors, and the land that we're from. This is the place our hearts sing songs for, no matter how far away we are.

By hiding these places, and never mentioning them, we are consigning our sacred sites to the erasure that Spanish colonists, and the American government, have fought so hard to achieve.

Hiding important pieces of a culture that we're supposed to be trying to "save", "revive", and "re-awaken" is so contradictory that I'm a little beyond words.

I'm talking about spiritual sites where our Gods supposedly touched The Earth....

Physical things like Coyote's footprint. Like the drawings of my ancestors, on the cave walls where they lived, and visited, three-thousand years ago. Ancient maps, signs, calendars, and star charts, put together. Information transmitted in a way which makes language superfluous.

Places where you can still hear the songs. And feel the spirit all around you.

All of these places tie us to here.

This is our heritage.

The only way to prevent our sacred, and cultural sites, from being destroyed, or vandalized, or disturbed, is by recognizing the site, itself, and declaring it the cultural property of your tribe.

There is no room for approximation. The location must be explicit.

You can't hit the property owners with a vague, "this is our ancestral land and we want easement to practice our traditions on it," and expect too much traction.

You have to say something like:

"Hey,

This is our ancestral land. We have a couple of shellmounds on your property here, and here; and a destroyed mound that you built something on top of, here. We'd like to take a look at them, visit them, and discuss a possible easement to visit them once or twice a year."

This works. I'm actually very serious. And, yes, it is that easy to start the conversation.

In the end. The push-back against the idea of Land Back, and easement, is really going to come from private property owners. Public Lands in parks, and land banks, are so much easier to break up and award. Privately owned land is harder to negotiate for. Owners don't often walk away without a fight.

Many of the Native American Cultural Assets in California exist in places that are being exploited for their natural resources, like oil refineries, and quarries. There is no way any of these companies would leave, or give up their land without a fight. These industries are worth billions of dollars, and provide thousands of jobs. There would be huge ramifications for the communities these industries employ, if they did leave.

[None of this is meant to detract from the fact that Oil Refineries and Rock Quarries should stop polluting, and get tf off our land.]

It's more than likely that oil companies would consider paying the Lytton Band of Pomo Indians, or the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area for their encroachment onto Unceded Tribal Territory. (Hopefully no one settles for the symbolism of flying a tribal flag.)

But private property owners. Owners of B&B's, AirBnB's, Ranches, even some corporate vineyards. These are the people we should try to approach. And just ask for access, first. An opportunity to just look, and document these places as they stand today.

Naturally, in the course of your communication, the property owners will receive information about your tribe, and learn about the importance of this site to your people. But it takes a certain, sterilized, administrative approach to begin.

Many shellmound sites that are under private ownership butt up against public lands. So it actually wouldn't be too hard to work something out with the owners and the park systems. No one's really tried to do this, yet. And we're running out of time.

I see that people are more willing to learn about, and help preserve Native American History than we may give them credit for. This is reflected by the great interest in corporations like the Sogorea Te Land Trust.

But is this problem really going to be solved with fresh strawberries?

Would a private land trust even be necessary if the true, legitimate Ohlone Tribe were re-recognized by the federal government?

Charlene Nijmeh, the Tribal Chairwoman of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area recently wrote a special article for the Daily California, outlining some of the ways which the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe was removed from the Federally Recognized Tribes list and denied land in the San Francisco Bay Area. Forcing Muwekma Tribal Members and Descendants to watch as much of the physical history of their people was erased, over the next 90 years, by the development of such places as Silicon Valley. With no justice, or means for recompense.

In her article, the Chairwoman issued a Call To Action, to support the Federal Re-Recognition of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.

But, the first step is to distinguish between the real East Bay Ohlone Tribal Government, and the Corporations claiming to be them.

In the fight for recognition, imposter organizations will only confuse the issue more. Corporations soliciting for your donations, and for property, and other tangible things, with the stated goal to return land to Ohlone People should be directly associated with the real Ohlone Tribe in the East Bay: the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.

The Muwekma Ohlone Tribe has been around for hundreds of years. Muwekma has documented their existence and family trees, exhaustively, back to the 1800's. The Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area is the true East Bay Ohlone Tribe, which was recognized by the federal government until 1934.

Here is a break-down of the East Bay Ohlone Organizations you may have heard of, and their relationship to the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.

Legitimate Ohlone Tribal Goverenments of the East Bay, and Their Affiliates:

• Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area
  Sovereign Native American Tribal Government, with documented ties to their homeland in The Bay, going back to at least the 1800's. Mountains of historical and genealogical research. Once a Federally Recognized Tribe; and mentioned in Treaty.
• Ohlone Indian Tribe, Inc.
  Created in the 1970's, to accept title, in lieu of Federal Recognition of the tribe, to the Ohlone Indian Cemetery, in Fremont, California. The same cemetery that Dolores Galvan (a famous Muwekma Ohlone leader) saved from being destroyed by the proposed construction of the 680 freeway.

Neither the Muwekma Tribal Government, nor the Ohlone Indian Tribe, INC. solicit for donations.

Corporations Claiming to be Tribal Governments, and Their Affiliates:

• Sogorea Te Land Trust:
  Created 2 years ago. Nonprofit Corporation. Stated purpose is to "create a land trust for community space and ceremony." Fronted by a convicted fraud with dubious claims of Ohlone ancestry. Mostly reclaims lots to make urban gardens. No formal ties with, or representation from the official Muwekma tribal government. Co-Directors, Corrina Gould, and Johnella La Rose, each draw $50k in annual salary.
• The Confederated Villages of Lisjan, Inc.
  Created 4 years ago. For-profit; mutual benefit corporation. Headed by a woman who was convicted of fraud in 1997, who is allegedly from a famous and well-documented Muwekma family, but has never been recognized as a descendant, or proven her claims. Currently suspended from doing business in California by the Franchise Tax Board.

By diverting funding and attention from Muwekma's struggle for Federal Recognition, you are contributing to the erasure of Ohlone History, and the erosion of Ohlone Identity.

Saving Shellmounds (Not Parking Lots) means supporting True Tribal Governments in their struggles for Recognition, and Return of Land and Ancestors.

It's time to stop giving money to an organization you never researched, just because it sounds good.

The Muwekema Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area is a real Tribal Government; led by Charlene Nijmeh, and Monica Arellano, Chairwoman, and Vice-Chairwoman; who really are working on the true Rematriation of Ohlone Land.

Support Muwekma's fight for Federal Re-Recognition!

Call your representatives in Congress and in the Senate, and demand the restoration of Muwekma’s status through a Congressional act.

Find your House Representative

Find your Senate Representative

From the beginning of my life, I never had the opportunity to learn about my culture, or where I was from. For the first 12 years of my life, I never even saw another Paiute person.

This was because I was adopted at birth. I knew that I was Native American. That I should be on a reservation somewhere in Central California. But, instead, I found myself in Alameda; trying to navigate the expectations and life plans set by my new, white, parents.

This kind of estrangement is common.

It comes in many different forms, for many different reasons. Boarding schools are pointed to, most often. But cultural estrangement started in California with the Mission System. It continued on through Mexican Occupation, when the missions were secularized, and "Spanish" land was granted to Mexican citizens, and select Indigenous People, who were associated with the Missions as ranchers and herders, or were deeded land in some other way. This was actually the first Native American "buy-in" that occurred in California.

When the American government came in, their imperative was to destroy or pacify people who they viewed as "savage", and sub-human. Giving land to these people who Americans found so hard to wipe off the face of the planet was unheard of. All land, property, and wealth held by the First Californians were immediately seized, destroyed, or transferred to white interlopers.

Some Native Americans went into hiding. Claimed to be Spanish. (They already spoke Spanish.) ...Leaned into their baptismal names.

This was the second estrangement.

American Occupation came with a number of different attempts to destroy, pacify, and ultimately assimilate and "breed out the savage". Each of these attempts divided (and sub-divided) tribal groups; moved us farther and farther away from our homelands, each other, and purposely tried to destroy everything linking us to the old ways. This was a sophisticated attempt at genocide, and population control; and people need to stop minimizing effects of this recent history on Indigenous People in America, today.

Native American People have been forced to live as Prisoners of War since the 17th Century. For more than three centuries, Indian Children and Infants were taken from their families, and placed into Missions, Orphanages, Boarding Schools, and worse. For most of the 19th and 20th centuries, it was legal for White Women to take Indian Children away from their families, and keep them as "wards". [Like in the series "Them".]

So it's not uncommon for a Native American Person to be so estranged from their family and culture. To have such a conflicted self-image of what it means to be Native American, and what Native American really is. For Spanglish to be spoken on the rez out here, in California. For former "Mission Indians" to be so heavily involved in the Catholic Church, and the veneration of the Missions.

But what if a Native American Descendant from California doesn't want to go to the Catholic or Mormon church to find out about their own people?

What if they're tired of listening to a narrative from white people's perspective? From the Eastern U.S. perspective of tribes like Dine, Lakota, Sioux? From the perspective of people who view Native America as a homogeneous group?

Where does someone go to find the stories of their specific tribe? The songs of the place they come from? Pictures of their ancestors? The history of their reservation? Where their ancestors lived before that?

Where do you go when your only sources are generic, pan-Indian narratives, and single-page, one-sentence mentions of your tribe?

I decided to search historic newspapers, museums, government, and institutional records.

Historic Newspapers are hard to locate. And even harder to read for free. Many of these newspapers were taken out of circulation, and stored on microfilm. Even more are locked behind Ancestry.com (and affiliate) pay gates, specifically. It is interesting to note that "Ancestry" is based in Salt Lake City, Utah, though.

Museums store items by the Date Received; not by Keyword, or Subject--which shows that Museums have historically been about accounting and fundraising more than they were about collecting items which they intend to reference, much less curate. This makes the situation even more problematic, because researchers are expected to do the work of tracking something down, and often times creating a new library information system in the process. [Basically, re-cataloging every single object to find the two or three that were actually being sought after.]

The amount of free labor some museums get on the backs of unpaid researchers is very disproportionate to the amount of useful information researchers actually find when laboring for said museums.

Government Records only had to be stored for a certain period of time. Certainly, anything more than 100 years old was more likely to be destroyed, than it was preserved. Much of the City of Alameda records were converted to microfilm; combined with transcriptions of the Official Alameda Newspaper of Record, then simply labeled "Historic Rolls".

Much of these rolls contained little to no useful information, and was simply a transcribed duplicate of several newspaper reels, which were also available. Still, missing records stymied my search. It almost seemed as if things were intentionally removed from the City of Alameda Historical Record between 1910, and 1960.

Other cities which were consulted, like Pleasanton, San Leandro, and Hayward, do not have historic newspapers from before the early 1900's. These inquiries were usually passed on to local museums. Then on to local genealogical and historic societies--where the inquiry usually died. This is to say that there are no contrasting reports available from other historical newspapers (yet.)

Governmental Chain of Custody

Furthermore, because of the changeover from Spanish, to Mexican, to American hands: the chain of custody of important documents was broken each time the land changed hands. The U.S. Government was not interested in keeping prior records[; which also explains the fundamental lack of understanding of tribal cultures American anthropologists still experience to this day.]

This is why the "California Land Grants" case happened, in 1851. Because rich Mexicans (and Spanish ex-pats) were getting jilted out of their land they had old titles to, by white people, who claimed their American land deed superseded any other. (I mean, this is consistent with the U.S. policy of west-ward expansion during the late 1800's, to test Mexico's control over 'The West', and eventually gain control of California--among other territories.)

Mission/Spanish/Mexican records are still somewhat of a mystery and records were basically abandoned "as the vine withered".

This is because many of the missions and forts Spain installed in California were actually remote forward operating bases.

Paperwork flowed back through California, to Mexico, and over the Atlantic Ocean, to Spain--when everything was working as planned. This organization was already broken down by "Corporate Office", "Regional Managers", "District Managers", "Store Managers", "Shift Managers", and Baristas.

So, when the Spanish were sent back to Spain, those documents stayed here, were hastily mailed out, or were destroyed.

When the Missions were secularized, those documents were abandoned, taken by cardinals (or whoever), or destroyed.

Anything that wasn't specifically removed and preserved was probably destroyed in the [totally righteous] fires that destroyed many of the the San Francisco Bay Area Catholic Missions the first time.

So, when it comes time to track down the records of these organizations; it's necessary to chase them all the way back to the original departments and agencies which created them. This search almost always leads to institutions like the University of California, at Berkeley.

Why? Because, it turns out, the University of Berkeley Phoebe A. Hearst Museum of Anthropology, and the U.C. Berkeley Library has the largest collection of relevant materials within 50 miles.

Institutional Records and Academic Studies

Academic Institutions, like The Smithsonian, and the University of California, made their names on robbing the graves of Native American and Indigenous People all around the world.

Thousands upon thousands of bones, and cultural artifacts are in the custody of these institutions, waiting to be returned to their descendants, and laid to rest in the manner of each of their hundreds of individual tribes. More than half of the remains are "tribally unaffiliated"; and stay in limbo, because they have no living descendant to receive them, and no ancestral land to be laid to rest in.

The "researchers" who did this physically separated people from their final resting places, mixed and miss-matched parts of other people's bodies together, failed to properly label our ancestors, and now have what amounts to a "spare parts bin" of archaeological malfeasance.

As much as Archaeologists and Anthropologists would like you to believe the opposite, these bones were found by systematically cutting open cemeteries, and removing rows of bodies under the guise of "legitimate scientific research".

They did this all the while wondering, "Where did these people disappear to?"

Knowing full well that Indian Wars were raging nearby.

Conflicts such as:

Sioux Wars - 1854-1891 in the Great Plains
Ute Wars - 1850-1923 in Utah
Apache Wars - 1854-1924 in the South-West

They wondered...

Even with the knowledge that an Indian Reservation or Indian Town existed within 100 miles of any place mentioned in any anthropological or archaeological study/survey from 1860-1920.

These "ethnologists", anthropologists and archaeologists were living through the California Land Grant Cases.

Anybody in the business of "antiquity" should well know the whereabouts and disposition of any of the Indigenous People whose graves, bones, and property they were "studying", or auctioning off to private collectors.

Especially when the battles were making front page news daily.

There is no answer for this willful ignorance, and unethical exclusion of important facts and datum. The narrative of Native American History, as told by colonizers, is full of these types of falsities, and lies by omission. And things like this really call to question the accuracy, and reliability of any of these works.

If you can even get access to them.

Institutional Gatekeeping of Tribally Affiliated Knowledge/Artifacts

Because Universities, Museums, and other Grave Robbers ("hunters of antiquities", "tomb raiders", etc.)--as well as Ethnologists, Linguists, and Archaeologists--stole bodies; sacred, ceremonial, and cultural artifacts; caused the damage and loss of cultural land and sites; and attributed Native American intellectual property to themselves, instead of to the Native American creators of said property;

And,

Because of the sustained and forceful objections to the theft and kidnapping of Native American Bodies and Culture by Native Americans, and The Public; as well as demands for the return of Native American Remains and Items & Artifacts:

The Native American Graves Repatriation Act was enacted Federally, and by the State of California to protect the Graves, Remains, Cultural Sites, Artifacts, and Other Native American Objects within the State; as well as to create a framework for the repatriation of Native American remains in the possession of Universities and Institutions.

The Native American Heritage Commission was created in California to directly administer these efforts. In 1982, the Commission was authorized to make a determination of "Most Likely Descendant" when Native American remains are found. Most Likely Descendants are people or tribal groups who have documented ties to the land where Native American Graves were disturbed, and Native American bodies have been found. The Native American Heritage Commission is charged with assisting Tribal Notification, and the process of Tribal Consultation by the Most Likely Descendants.

The tribal consultation process only offers two ways to "mitigate" the damage to Native American Graves, Remains, Landmarks, Objects, and/or other Funerary Things:

1. Re-bury the remains in a place where they will not be disturbed;
2. Remove the remains, and return them to the Most Likely Descendant for proper burial.

The process of notification goes something like this:

1. Human remains found, notification to Coroner.
2. Coroner determines remains are Native American, and therefore under the jurisdiction of the California Native American Heritage Commission (CalNAHC).
3. CalNAHC provides a notification list to property owner. This list contains the contact information for Tribal Groups who are Most Likely Descendant(s) of the Native American body found.
4. Tribal Group is notified and only has a certain amount of time to make a response as to how the Native American remains should be treated, or how a project can avoid disturbing cultural resources.

If the Tribe does not respond within 30 days of notice, the developer or property owner will be able to continue work, unencumbered by the Native American Graves Protection Repatriation Act. And, in the case of housing development, the building process will be allowed to be streamlined, via AB 831, an act relating to housing, and declaring the urgency thereof.

But, if the Most Likely Descendant and Property Owner are not able to reach a compromise....

Say the MLD wants absolutely no more development of the land; and the property owner (CalTrans, Ruegg & Ellsworth, San Rafael Rock Quarry, etc.) is unable to reach a compromise, the desecration will be allowed to continue if the developer simply alleges they tried their best. The construction just won't be "streamlined", and will have to go through the normal Environmental Assessment procedure; and will likely still result in the destruction or desecration of Tribal Cultural Resources.

The aforementioned refers to situations where Native American Graves and/or Remains (funerary objects, etc.) have been found.

CalNAHC also plays a role when Public Entities, like Caltrans, Amtrak, Los Angeles Public Works, East Bay Municipal Utility District, East Bay Recreation and Parks Department, the City of Menlo Park, etc., want to develop anything on what's considered "public land" or subsidized by public funds.

We're talking: Public Works Projects, Improvement Projects.... Things which translate into freeway on or off-ramps, giant rain water caches underneath Glen Cove Park (in Vallejo, California), water pumps in Alameda, Treasure Island, San Francisco... BART stations, Water Treatment Plants... And more.

All of these places around us started as project proposals.

And each proposal needs to comply with local, state, and federal law. Each facility, site, or subject property--after being built--needs to operate in compliance with local state, and federal law.

Namely: CEQA. The California Environmental Quality Act.

CEQA was one of the first set of laws that recognized Native American Graves, Objects, etc., as being valuable, and worth saving.

Because of CEQA, when these proposed public works projects, projects on public land, or projects using public money, are submitted, they are also required to perform an Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA).

You've probably seen the Public Notice of Hearing(s) that are posted on the front of buildings, or on the fences outside of where buildings once stood.

These are Required Notices to The Public. You. These hearings decide the very fate of the sacred places which have, up to this point, become Shopping Malls, and Subdivisions with Waterside Parks.

These Notices tell you when a Water Treatment Plant, Waste Management Facility, Shooting Range, or Quarrying Operation has an upcoming Permit Hearing.

In fact, multi-year operations, like the San Rafael Rock Quarry, are required to resubmit an Environmental Impact Report periodically, and submit to a public hearing (to the County Board of Supervisors, in this case), to keep their permits, and continue operating.

These EIA's are often very long (more than 40 pages,) and contain a multitude of very technical information regarding the current state of the land intended to be "used", and the speculative impact of the operations intended upon said land (e.g. pollution, destruction of natural habitat, etc.) The specifics change with every project. However, the demands of the Environmental Impact Assessment remain constant.

Recently, the passage of Assembly Bill 52 (Chapter 532, Statutes 2014) codified the inclusion of a single question regarding "Tribal Cultural Resources":

Would the project cause a substantial adverse change in the significance of a tribal cultural resource, defined in Public Resources Code section 21074 as either a site, feature, place, cultural landscape that is geographically defined in terms of the size and scope of the landscape, sacred place, or object with cultural value to a California Native American tribe, and that is:

a) Listed or eligible for listing in the California Register of Historical Resources, or in a local register of historical resources as defined in Public Resources Code section 5020.1(k), or

b) A resource determined by the lead agency, in its discretion and supported by substantial evidence, to be significant pursuant to criteria set forth in subdivision (c) of Public Resources Code Section 5024.1. In applying the criteria set forth in subdivision (c) of Public Resources Code Section 5024.1, the lead agency shall consider the significance of the resource to a California Native American tribe."

Because of this, the California Native American Heritage Commission is charged with yet another duty: maintaining a Tribal Contact List for CEQA Purposes, per AB 52 (CA PRC §21080.3.1...); and when Cities and Municipalities create their General Plan [among other things], per SB 18 (CA GOV §65352.3).

The California Native American Graves Protection Repatriation Act, and the authoritative statutes empowering the California Native American Heritage Commission, specifically state the importance of the "confidentiality of information regarding specific identity, location, character, and use of those [Native American] places, features, and objects."

In the courts, this has often played out as the misreading of statute from "confidential" to "secret". However, statutes surrounding the confidentiality of Native American (Tribal) Cultural Resources simply state that NAHC is "not required" to disclose certain records, or information specifically enumerated in the California Government, and Health & Safety Codes.

The statutory scheme, as it stands:

requires Tribal Cultural Assets to be listed (in a confidential appendix) in Environmental Impact Assessments. The specific information regarding the Tribal Cultural Resource is hidden. But general, non-confidential information regarding the Existence Of A Tribal Cultural Resource that could be significantly effected by a proposed project should be published and made available to the general public. [PRC §21082.3(f)]

These public sections of the Proposed Environment Impact Report, or Proposed Negative Impact ("Declaration"), which mentions "Tribal Cultural Resources", will be small. Maybe the heading won't even catch your eye. And the "general information" presented on the document will minimize the existence of Tribal Cultural Resources, even though the report is supposed to clarify how significantly the Tribal Cultural Resource will be affected.

In fact, the EIR, or Negative Impact Declaration, is supposed to tell you how damage to Tribal Cultural Resources could have been mitigated, or the circumstances behind why the destruction of Tribal Cultural Resources was "unavoidable". It should say whether or not Tribal Consultation (or "Scoping Activities") were conducted or concluded, or if an agreement was reached with the direct Lineal, or Most Likely Descendants of the Tribal Cultural Resource.

The EIR, or Negative Impact Declaration should make it clear whether or not the tribe even responded to invitations for consultation. That information should be in bold. But it's not. And, who actually knows how to read an Environmental Impact Report?

At some point, we have to realize that our ignorance is being taken advantage of every day.

The fact that we are distracted every single waking second is an advantage that is being leveraged against us in the long wars of attrition against corporations and governments who want nothing more than to exploit our land, and tear the bodies of our ancestors out of the ground to build condos that cost $1.5-2M, each.

This is why property owners refuse to register Native American Historical Sites. Because this land is worth more money than many of the people who live on it will see in our entire lives. This land is worth more than us. And erasing us, or creating a statutory scheme that makes it easy to disregard Native American objections to the desecration and theft of our land, also makes money for themselves while they do it.

This is a Billion dollar industry that Native American "Consultants" are sucking the dew off of in only the most parasitic, "bottom-feeder" kind of way. The disrespect to the bodies of our elders. Our great grandparents.... It's all just for the zero's.

No matter how the statute is written. No matter how much commitment legislators and politicians can claim to have, the easy-out that Developers and Governmental Agencies has hinges upon the responsibility of a Tribal Organization to respond to these "invitations" for tribal "scoping" and "consultation".

The statute presupposes that Government Agencies and Developers are law-abiding. But, when it comes to the required "consultation" with Native American Tribes, Lineal, or Most Likely Descendants... all of the exceptions hinge upon the "nonparticipation" of Native Americans.

(d) In addition to other provisions of this division, the lead agency may certify an environmental impact report or adopt a mitigated negative declaration for a project with a significant impact on an identified tribal cultural resource only if one of the following occurs:

(1) The consultation process between the California Native American tribe and the lead agency has occurred as provided in Sections 21080.3.1 and 21080.3.2 and concluded [in an agreement with Tribal Consultants.]

(2) The California Native American tribe has requested consultation pursuant to Section 21080.3.1 and has failed to provide comments to the lead agency, or otherwise failed to engage, in the consultation process.

(3) The lead agency has complied with subdivision (d) of Section 21080.3.1 and the California Native American tribe has failed to request consultation within 30 days.

Assembly Bill 52

According to Assembly Bill 831, housing projects meeting the above criteria would still be "streamlined", removing most of the public response and permit hurdles necessary for quick development.

The problem is that Native American Graves, Cemeteries, Cultural Sites, and Sacred Lands are still being given the green-light for demolition.

They are being rubber-stamped for desecration by a function of law that simply added Notification, and "Due Process" instead of actual Justice, and Accountability.

There must be a way to advocate for Native American Tribal Cultural Resources, like Graves, Cemeteries, and Sacred Places, when Lead Agencies and Private Developers receive no response through the Tribal Contact List.

Either the Native American Heritage Commission must step up for all of these places, or they need to devise an apparatus that will allow true conservation work (the very basis of NAHC's Mission) to take place without them.

Stay tuned for more.

A Frequently Asked Question about Ohlone People, the First Alamedans, and the Tribe Fighting for Federal Re-Recognition.

This is one such reply.

Hello [...],

Thanks for reaching out.  To the best of our knowledge, the East Bay Tribal Government is the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.

The Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area has documented ties to this area going back to the 1800's.  The Muwekma Ohlone Tribe was once a Federally Recognized Tribe, promised a "land base" by congress, until their errant removal from the Recognized Tribes list.  This article by Charlene Nijmeh has more information about the history of Muwekma, as well as a Call to Action to help advocate for the re-recognition of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.

The Muwekma have also been known as Ohlone, Chochenyo, Costanoan, the Verona Band, and "Lisjanes".

Ohlone: was the name of a tribal group a little north of Half Moon Bay, which was encountered by the Spanish "first", and therefore attributed to the people north of Santa Cruz(?), in the San Francisco Bay Region.  [Oljon, Milliken "A Time of Little Choice".]

Chochenyo: is the Ohlone Language that was chiefly spoken in the East Bay.  [Harrington 1921]

Costanoan: was a Spanish term that needs no translation other than to point out this is someone who lives on the coast.

Verona Band: 

Although the Muwekma were known by many names, the Indian agency labeled us “Verona Band,” after a railroad station. And although Verona Band was included on the list of tribes eligible for receiving land in 1914, 1923 and 1927, Dorrington reported that the tribe was not in need of land. Verona Band was then removed from the list along with 134 other California Indian bands.... The two departmental actions of mislabeling the tribe and failing to secure for us the land base which had been mandated by Congress marked the beginning of our political erasure.

Charlene Nijmeh, Chairwoman of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.

Lisjan: is a word that Jose Guzman [a famous Muwekma ancestor] used in a language interview with J.P. Harrington, in 1921.  It's unclear how extensively the word was used, or what it even means.  But Jose Guzman considered himself Lisjan ["Yo soy Lisjan"], and another Harrington interviewee, Angela Colos, thought the northern boundary of the name "Lisjan" was around where present-day Hayward is.  However, the actual boundaries of Lisjan were never explicitly enumerated, and the northern boundary mentioned here is not even mentioned with confidence by Angela Colos.

To make the issue of Lisjan more confusing:

• "Lisjan" is a place name for Pleasanton, California in a different language, called Nisenan.  (Spoken by a tribe whose capital is in Nevada City, California, 100 miles away from Pleasanton.) [1967 Nisenan Dictionary & Text, Uldall and Shipley.]
• Lisjan does not appear in any Spanish-Period Mission Records.  [Milliken]
• "Lisjanes" does appear on Richard Levy's map of Bay Area Tribal Groups in 1967, [in Robert Heizer's Handbook of North American Indians (Vol. 8 California).] Levy's contribution to Heizer's handbook cites Harrington's work, only; but does not mention "Lisjanes" anywhere in the text, itself. [Milliken]
• A group claiming to be the "Confederated Villages of Lisjan" appeared in 2017, headed by Corrina Gould, who claims to be directly related to Jose Guzman.  But these claims have never been proven; Gould has never been acknowledged as a Muwekma "Descendant" (a real form of acknowledgment for un-enrolled members of a tribe.)  Currently, the Confederated Villages of Lisjan, INC. is barred from doing business in California by the Franchise Tax Board.

The Chairwoman of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area, Charlene Nijmeh recently put out a Call to Action.  She asked us to contact our congressional representatives to demand the Federal Re-Recognition of the Muwekma Tribe by an action of congress.

If the Muwekma Tribe were re-recognized, our Ohlone neighbors would be granted a "Land Base" by Congress; a Federal Land Trust would be created to hold land for future generations; and the Muwekma Tribe would finally have legal standing to petition to block development which threatens to harm or destroy cultural and sacred Ohlone sites.  This would actually make Sogorea Te Land Trust superfluous, because hundreds of acres of Eastern San Francisco Bay Area land would be effectively "rematriated" by the recognition of Ohlone Tribal Government, the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.

Hope this helps answer your question.

The Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC. has changed from a mutual benefit corporation, to a Public Benefit Corporation dedicated to "relief of poverty in urban rez (sf bay area), mutual aid admin."

This is a change from the tribal government Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC was purporting itself to be.

The original Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC operated in obscurity.

In the "Tribal Consulting Industry", the Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC, was known for having a propensity for burning bridges with industry experts and professionals who came to actually help Corrina Gould, and her family. As well as interfering with, and "hijacking" the land and struggles of other Native American tribes. Corrina, herself, is known for attacking and bullying people behind the scenes.

As soon as I reported my experiences with Corrina Gould, and started showing you my research, I was contacted by other people who had bad experiences with the Gould's, and Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC.

They told me that this is typical behavior by Corrina Gould; and that they, too, had experienced bullying, betrayal, or some other type of harassment/mistreatment by Gould, her family, and followers.

My sources gave me their own stories, and more than one honestly suggested that it's not worth my time to cover this topic; expressed concern over being harassed by Gould's "followers". Told me that they could be dangerous. But it's difficult not to talk about this. Because people ask me about this subject pretty frequently.

I'm not the only person to take a look at how Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC., and Sogorea Te Land Trust were set-up, and see red flags. But no one wanted to report on this subject because they're afraid of being called racist, misogynist, being cancelled, or just harassed by Gould, her family, and followers.

You don't know about this, because--up until now--Corrina Gould has managed to bully people who question her into silence; or discredit anyone who disagrees with her by calling them, "colonizers" or "karens".

This all describes efforts by Corrina Gould to avoid the question. To deflect scrutiny back on to her "attacker".

Corrina Gould's supporters enable this, by blindly believing everything she says, without thinking critically about the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area, and how come Corrina Gould isn't enrolled in the tribe that she's from; the real Ohlone tribe in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Instead of being led by pure emotion, and zero analytical thought: how about read a book or something?

Actually look at the court records, and all of these other documents which are public, and available to you.

If you're woke-woke, you do your own research, right?

You question authority and find out for yourself, right?

Maybe not.

I also wanted to believe the narrative that Corrina Gould has created, because it's so powerful, and attractive, and righteous.

But her narrative only lends more obfuscation to the situation; and levies the ignorance and confusion surrounding Bay Area Native History, Land Trusts, and what a Tribal Government really is.

There's supposed to be a segue here, but I can't think of one to say I want to look at these two things:

Corrina Gould's failed negotiations at West Berkeley; and the lie of Glen Cove.

These events are important, because:

• They are well-known;
• What I'm about to say is easy to verify; and,
• This topic hasn't been critically addressed, until now.

"West Berkeley Shellmound"

The most important thing you need to know is: CVL was offered a cultural center, outdoor park, and money for use of the land in West Berkeley, until it was to be completely turned over to Ohlone people in 99 years or something--which is a lot of rent money. (This article, from Berkeleyside mentions the cultural education center.)

But Gould refused this offer, out-right, and continued to make unreasonable demands, and unrealistic counter-offers, all the while telling the public that Native American people were being ignored.

In reality, Corrina Gould walked away from the sweetest deal for urban land back that I've never found an equivalent to.

In fact: it was because Tribal Consultation had occurred in West Berkeley--using Andrew Galvan's archeological company--that we know the Spenger's Parking Lot in Berkeley is not a shellmound.

The City of Berkeley's "West Berkeley Shellmound" historical district was purposely created in a space larger than the footprint of the actual shellmound because the people who planned and created the district didn't know where the shellmound actually was. These details all came out in the litigation over the West Berkeley Shellmound, and is public record.

From the perspective of everyone involved in West Berkeley, except for Corrina Gould: the parties attempting to negotiate with Corrina delayed the project, made extraordinary good faith concessions in negotiations. The City and Property Owners (Ruegg & Ellsworth) did everything they could, short of stopping construction of housing during a housing crisis.

The planning process had already taken place; the Environmental Impact Report was finished; and, Tribal Consultation and Scoping was completed with the West Berkeley Shellmound's Most Likely Descendant (as determined by the Native American Heritage Commision), Andrew Galvan.

The bulk of Corrina's legal battles have been fought behind the auspices of the Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC.

But claiming to have "fought battles" in court, when you've barely been allowed to file as an intervenor is a stretch. The most that Corrina Gould managed to do during the ensuing litigation was delay the inevitable, and make things extremely expensive for everyone, except her, and CVL (Sogorea Te Land Trust paid for the attorneys.)

The City of Berkeley knew its hands were tied, that it would be improper to deny Ruegg & Ellsworth's permit, and contrary to law. But, Corrina Gould wanted the development stopped, at all costs....

Even though it was too late in the process. Even though tribal consultation had already taken place. Even though Corrina Gould didn't have the tribal authority to sue for an injunction; because the Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC is not a Tribal Government.

So what did Corrina Gould do?

Gould threatened to sue the City of Berkeley (May 2018), if Berkeley didn't deny Ruegg & Ellsworth's project permit.

Even though the City of Berkeley knew it was improper to deny the permit; and contrary to existing law (SB 35.)

Even though Tribal Consultation, and two archeological studies had been conducted; and concluded the parking lot wasn't where the shellmound was; and the "overspread", "remnants" of the shellmound underneath the lot certainly was not a "structure" by any of today's standards. It was probably moved from a different location, where the mound actually was. [Perhaps for road building, or agriculture.]

The City of Berkeley knew that they could be sued by Ruegg & Ellsworth; which would cost tens of thousands of dollars, and likely end in defeat.

But the City still denied the project permit. And it did end in defeat....

Ruegg & Ellsworth filed for a writ of mandate to compel Berkeley to comply with SB 35.

First, The Alameda County Superior Court ruled in favor of the City of Berkeley denying the permit.

Then, Ruegg & Ellsworth appealed the ruling of the Superior Court, and was ultimately awarded judgment, and granted a mandate to compel the City of Berkeley's compliance with California law.

From the perspective of CVL, and Sogorea Te, this story ends abruptly; with the filing of an appeal to the California Supreme Court. There was a lot of hype about "taking the fight to the supreme court".

Fundraising and Social Media Campaigns went into high gear.

But we never heard about the outcome....

The California Supreme Court declined to hear the appeal on the West Berkeley Shellmound.

Even that article makes the mistake of not recognizing Confederated Villages of the Lisjan as a Corporation, versus the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area, which is actually comprised of, and represents the real, bona fide, Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.

We're talking about thousands of people legitimately enrolled in a tribe, versus, a brand-new corporation (from 2017) that claims to have "over 85 members", and has been around "since time immemorial."

Corrina Gould argues that "her" tribe is unrecognized. That they are being treated unfairly, and ignored. Gould has also said she shares a common ancestor with Muwekma, in Jose Guzman--but that they are not the same tribe, somehow.

When you look at their websites: CVL never mentions Muwekma. Sogorea Te Land Trust never mentions Muwekma, either.

But, somehow, their "historical background" seems to mirror perfectly the real story of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.

Both corporations (CVL and Sogorea Te Land Trust) made their mission to advocate for Ohlone people, and put native land, into native hands. But neither organization has dedicated their assets to any specific Native American tribe that is State or Federally recognized, or even proven their connection to Jose Guzman past the barest allegation.

The lie of Glen Cove ("Sogorea Te")

We know that Corrina Gould managed to procure an easement at Glen Cove.

Gould claimed this was a victory because "Native voices were heard."

But was this a victory?

The actual story of the negotiations, and real struggle happening concurrently with the very visible occupation of Glen Cove is much different than what's been covered in the news.

What you don't know is that this easement came at a great cost to the local bands of Wintu, and Patwin tribes. That the "Memorandum of Understanding and Settlement Agreement" at Glen Cove ("Sogorea Te") would cost tribes $100,000 dollars.

At both Glen Cove and West Berkeley, Corrina Gould claimed that Tribal Consultation had never taken place.

This is absolutely incorrect.

Tribes at both Glen Cove, and West Berkeley accepted the invitation for consultation and scoping at the very beginning of the development process; and had conducted, and concluded business with the respective developers and responsible parties long before a decision was made to issue the permits for construction.

Consider this quote from Kesner Flores, in an East Bay Times Article by Tony Burchyns, May 19, 2011, Legal options examined in Vallejo’s Glen Cove park development dispute :

District officials have been in almost daily contact with Kesner Flores, a member of the Cortina Indian Rancheria band of Patwin Indians. He is acting as an intermediary between the district and three Patwin tribes.

The Colusa, [Cortinas] and Yocha Dehe bands support the project, Flores said, because it would cap, with a foot of soil, vulnerable archaeological resources supposedly belonging to the tribes.

“There is one thing that a tribe does not do — take another tribe’s territory,” said Flores, referring to the protesters, who he considers a “community group” with no tribal authority.

Flores was only quoted once telling us that Glen Cove Park was Patwin land.

No other news coverage mentions the fact that Corrina Gould, and other protestors, are interlopers on another tribe's territory.

Flores didn't directly say that Corrina Gould was interfering with other tribes' business. Or that Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC didn't belong there. Because, Native Americans largely try to avoid direct confrontation where they can.

(At this time: Sogorea Te Land Trust wasn't even born yet; but the corporation has no representation from the Native American tribal groups/bands associated with Glen Cove, to this day.)

Ignoring the objections of Kesner Flores--who was the Most Likely Descendant of the Glen Cove Shellmound, and represented 3 different bands of Patwin people--was exactly how not to "come correct", and truly contrary to the Native American Tribal Protocols, which Corrina Gould tries so hard to champion.

The truth is: Tribal Consultation Occurred...
without Corrina Gould

Neither of these consultations included included the Confederated Villages of Lisjan, INC, nor Corrina Gould, because:

1. Glen Cove is Wintu & Patwin land (not Miwok), and, regardless of whether or not Karkin people shared, owned it--or whether or not the area was actually community property--it doesn't matter, because CVL is from Oakland.
2. Kesner Flores was determined to be the Glen Cove Shellmound's "Most Likely Descendant" by the Native American Heritage Commission.
3. West Berkeley was consulted by the one-and-only Andrew Galvan, the Most Likely Descendant of the West Berkeley Shellmound. Galvan is a well-known, direct descendant of Dolores Marine Galvan. He is the docent of Mission Dolores, and directly affiliated with the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.
4. Glen Cove park was consulted by several Tribal Representatives, including, Kesner Flores, who NAHC determined is the Most Likely Descendant of the Glen Cove Shellmound remains.
5. Legally, Corrina Gould has no standing; she's not Patwin; and CVL is not a Tribal Government, nor the Most Likely Descendant of a shellmound in Vallejo, California.
6. Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC has only been allowed to file as an intervenor in ongoing matters in the past; and Corrina Gould's lack of standing--even as the Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC.--has been laid out clearly by the judges of every court case they've ever been involved in.

Corrina Gould's connection to Muwekma

The present-day Muwekma Ohlone Tribe is comprised of all of the known surviving American Indian lineages aboriginal to the San Francisco Bay region who trace their ancestry through the Missions Dolores, Santa Clara, and San Jose; and who were also members of the historic Federally Recognized Verona Band of Alameda County.

muwekma.org

Why does nothing in the Muwekma literature--including the Department of Interior petitions for Muwekma Federal Re-Recognition, which contain hundreds of pages of ancestry information & expert analysis--ever mention Corrina Gould, or her mother, Joann Tucker?

Every enrolled/disenrolled/or potential Muwekma Ohlone Tribe enrollee can trace their ancestry straight back to their full-blooded ancestor.

That's how this works. For every tribe.

In the case of Muwekma: this ancestry is readily available. Gould's mother, at the very least, should appear in the records. But her name does not. None of the records I found contained any concrete link between Corrina Gould and Jose Guzman.

However, I've been told that there could be a link. But, the bottom line is, no one has found it. And Corrina Gould has stayed deathly silent on this subject.

The Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area has been researched extensively by the Bureau of Indian Affairs; Muwekma tribal members and scholars (, such as Alan Leventhal,) have accomplished so much more of their own research into their history, ancestry, heritage, culture, and traditions, that the link between Corrina Gould and Jose Guzman should be clear and convincing.

That information should be right there. The entire tribal rolls are listed in the Muwekma Petition for Federal Recognition.

I'm not kidding. About any of this.

We, as Native Americans, descendants, have to know who our nearest, full-blooded "Indian Relative" is. We need to be able to prove it to become enrolled in a tribe, or receive a tribal descendant ID card.

Did you know: If Corrina Gould really is related to Andrew Galvan, "seven great-grandmas back", then she could be as Native American as Elizabeth Warren is. However, if her Great-Great-Grandfather were Jose Guzman, she could be as Indian as I am.

It's a fallacy to believe something is true unless proven otherwise. How does one prove non-existence? How can you say that you believe in something like miracles, or gods, until someone can prove that they don't exist? You can't even prove they exist in the first place.

Believing Corrina Gould's claims does not make them true.

You can't believe harder than you think.

You're not "woke" if you do that. Being woke means thinking critically, and asking questions, especially to authority; working actively to sabotage, destroy, and deconstruct the systems of misogyny and enslavement that we are all caught in.

However:

Truth is not an opinion. Truth is a verifiable fact.

Instantly refusing to ask the question, refusing to entertain the thought, or have the discussion about this subject is really detrimental to the true struggles of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area, for Federal Re-Recognition.

This is the problem with the current assumption that Corrina Gould is a legitimate "Tribal Chairperson", just because she says she is.

That the Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC is some tribe that we've never even heard of, that was here the whole time.

It's not true.

No one asked why all the officers of the Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC had the same last name. Or which Villages were a part of the Confederation. (How come we never heard from them--the other villages in the Confederation?)

If Sogorea Te Land Trust is trying to return native land to native hands, why is "Muwekma" completely absent from their website? Do they simply intend to grant land to Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC?

Up until now, Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, Inc. was a mutual benefit corporation, which is different than what we think a nonprofit corporation is.

In a true nonprofit, its assets would be dedicated to a charitable purpose, such as to an Indian Tribal Government. This "dedication of assets" should appear as a clause on the organization's Articles of Incorporation. It does not appear in CVL, or Sogorea Te Land Trust's articles of incorporation.

So, which tribe(s) are Sogorea Te Land Trust, and Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC associated with?

Because it's not Muwekma, or Colusa, or Cortina, or Yocha Dehe.

There is a black-out on this subject which needs to stop.

Native American tribes are not corporations.

Beware of corporations which pose as Tribal Governments.

Native American Tribes cannot be 501(c)3 tax-exempt organizations, because the exercise of sovereign powers is not a charitable purpose.

Every tribe must exercise its sovereign powers to administer tribal governance. The struggle of every tribe is for sovereignty. Sovereignty over self, over land use, over water rights, and more.

Even though the IRS uses the term "federally recognized tribe" in their documentation, the "exercise of sovereign power" is the operative phrase.

What is the excersize of sovereign power?

"Rev. Rul. 60-384, 1960-2 C.B. 172, provides that even though a wholly owned state or municipal organization may be separately organized, it is not eligible for IRC 501(c)(3) exemption if it has substantial regulatory or enforcement powers in the public interest. These powers traditionally are referred to as sovereign powers.

The three generally acknowledged sovereign powers are:

• Power to levy and collect tax on its behalf
• Power of eminent domain
• Police power"

From: IRS Reference Guide for Exempt Organizations Closely Affiliated with Indian Tribal Governments

Hint: this is probably why there's a clever distinction to remind you "Shuumi" means gift (a.k.a., "donation".) Because Land Tax is an example of regulatory/sovereign power.

So, this means: Gould's purported position as "Tribal Chairperson" of the Confederated Villages of Lisjan, INC was only stating her position as CEO, and President of The Board of that corporation.

Even though a Board of Directors is a "council"; a Board of Directors is not a "Tribal Council".

And there was no way Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC was representative of a "confederation" of villages, because the chief officers, were all principally related to one another.

There was no visible representation from any Ohlone Village, specifically. The former Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC only stated they were in occupied name-of-territory-here; but they never alleged that they were from or a representative of any village, specifically.

Despite the prohibition against nonprofit corporations wielding sovereign power: CVL seemed to exist primarily to fight eminent domain battles in court, using questionable legal theories to back frivolous lawsuits which they had no legitimate standing for; because suing corporations over something you state is "your land" is an exercise of sovereign power.

The recognition of Corporations as "akin", or equal to, real Native American Tribal Bands, and Tribal Governments is an error.

Without correction, this error will result in Real Tribes losing even more land, rights, and recompense for the terror and genocide they survived; and for which the Federal Government entered into treaties granting tribes--like the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area--a landbase; and lots of other things which the Federal Government doesn't honor today.

The refusal to cover this issue has created a lot of ignorance.

And the lack of answers to basic questions people have about East Bay Tribal Culture has created even more confusion.

But organizations, like Sogorea Te Land Trust, and the former Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC are basically using the ignorance of the general public to divert attention and funds away from the legitimate struggles for Land Back and Federal Re-Recognition of the true descendants of enslaved "Mission Indians" of the San Francisco Bay Area: the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.

Underneath all of this was the pallor of Corrina Gould's prior conviction for fraud,

which I found referenced in a civil "Confession of Judgment", during a summary search of the Alameda County Superior Court Records. The Criminal Case File itself was destroyed, but the Alameda County Superior Court Criminal Records still had something indexed, which included information about Corrina Gould's conviction, offense, et cetera.

I could make this really long. And try to explain to you in excruciating detail, "Why you shouldn't give money to someone who's been convicted of fraud."

I could tell you about Bernie Madoff, Rachel Dolezal, or Yolanda Saldivar.....

But, honestly, if you got this far down, and you still need another reason to pay attention to the red flags surrounding Corrina Gould....

I've got some great beans I really think you'd be interested in!!!

Save shellmounds, not parking lots.

Links:

• "How to Spot a Con Artist", North American Securities Administrators Association
• "Four surefire ways to spot a con artist—and what to do when you see them", Scott Con, MSNBC, Jan. 3 2020
• List of Federal and State Recognized Tribes, National Conference of State Legislators
• developer-invokes-new-state-law-force-berkeley-approve-260-unit-fourth-street, Berkeleyside.org
• Ruegg & Ellsworth vs. City of Berkeley , California Appellate Court, via Justia.com
• State Supreme Court Allows Housing Retail…., SFChronicle.com
• Legal Options Examined in Vallejo's Glen Cove Park Development Dispute, EastBayTimes.com
• Definition of "NAHC", containing explaination of "Most Likely Descendant", via LawInsider.com dictionary
• "How to Come Correct", on sogoreate-landtrust.org
• CEQA flowchart, California Association of Environmental Professionals
• Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area
• The Facts on Elizabeth Warren's DNA Test, FactCheck.org
• Op-Ed: "Political Erasure of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe and the Complicity of Silence", Charlene Nijmeh, Muwekma Chairwoman, via DailyCal.org
• IRS FAQ: Can a Federally Recognized Tribe Qualify as a Charitable Organization Exempt From Taxation Under IRC Section 501(c)3?, IRS.gov
• Reference Guide for Exempt Organizations Closely Affiliated with Indian Tribal Governments, IRS.gov
• The Story of Jack and The Beanstalk - Fairy Tales for Kids, KiddoStories via Youtube.com

Docs:

• Glen Cove Cultural Easement and Settlement Agreement
• Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, Statement of Information, dated May 10 2021
• Alameda County Superior Court Criminal Index Search Results, Corrina Gould Conviction

An archaeologist is sued by the California Attorney General, and the Native American Heritage Commission for the return of stolen Native American Artifacts.

People v. Van Horn (1990)

The only "published" case in California where any entity is being sued by "The People".

In this case: the State of California is suing David Van Horn, and Archaeological Associates, Ltd. (a company owned by him and his wife, Ruth) for the return of Native American artifacts and remains in his, and his wife's, possession without Native American consent.

David Van Horn, an archaeologist hired by a City to examine land The City intended to use as an industrial park, found two burials, and related funerary items and goods. Also present, and a party to this action, is Horn's assistant, Robert White. Tribes weren't aware of the discovery until the Oceanside Blade-Tribune reported it, and hinted that Van Horn, and his archaeological consulting company were trying to conceal the existence of the discovery.

Once tribes found out, they grouped together, engaged Kern County, City governments, and demanded that the remains and everything be returned to the tribes.

This lead to a meeting, where David Van Horn agreed to return the remains to tribes. But, in a later meeting, he refused to return metates that were buried somehow on top of the remains; arguing that objects placed on top of buried remains were not "funerary objects", or grave-related goods; he asserts his "expert opinion" that the metates were simply put there to "weigh" the body down.

Van Horn publicly showed contempt for NAGPRA, and claimed he was being unfairly persecuted for doing legitimate, scientific, work. He even went as far as to throw doubt that the representatives of several Native American tribes demanding return of these objects were even related to the bodies discovered.

This was the ultimate in sleazy denials. I bet the demurrer was fantabulous. Because, Van Horn threw out everything he could in his defense. Archaeological Associates, Ltd., claimed ignorance, and pointed to David Van Horn as the party ultimately responsible for breaking the law.

A year into the dispute, the California Attorney General, and Native American Heritage Commission filed suit to compel the return of the objects.

The statutes were clear that it is against the law to posses Native American Artifacts without Native American consent. Summary judgment was granted against David Van Horn. Van Horn, and Archaeological Associates, Ltd. were ordered to return the Native American artifacts, and repatriate Native American remains, to their Tribal Nation.

In the end, it didn't matter how much David Van Horn tried to fight culpability for his actions, and continued possession of Native American artifacts, without Native American Consent. It didn't matter because he never argued whether or not it was against the law to possess those objects.

And so...

the issue of fact becomes one of law and loses its triable character if the undisputed facts leave no room for a reasonable difference of opinion.

(Reid v. State Farm Mut. Auto. Ins. Co. (1985) 173 Cal.App.3d 557.)

The California Attorney General published an opinion on this case:
2007 Cal. AG LEXIS 23, 90 Ops. Cal. Atty. Gen. 89

There were also criminal charges filed against David Van Horn, and his assistant, for knowingly desecrating Native American graves. The case was ultimately dismissed.

However, the criminal case against Van Horn is notably "the first use of a 1988 state law that makes Native American grave robbery a felony."

Stay tuned for more.

Stop giving money to organizations and "causes" you know nothing about.

Non-profit organizations cannot be tribal governments. (The exercise of Tribal Sovereignty is not a charitable purpose.)

Organizations, like Sogorea Te "Land Trust" claim to be devoted to returning native land to native hands....

But which tribes are these organizations actually associated with?

Real Tribal Governments:

1. Will be able to break down their history with facts, and evidence;
2. Are recognized in Treaty--even if the government won't recognize their own treaties. (And they have a documented reason for why they are not mentioned in Treaties. [e.g. Tribal Warfare, Government Favoritism of One Tribe Over Another, etc.])
3. Hold elections.

The last point is super important. You can't call yourself a Tribal Chairperson if there was never a vote. And, especially, if your Tribal Government is really just a corporation.

If the "Tribal Government" you're working with has never petitioned for Federal Recognition from the Department of the Interior; that's a red flag.

If the California Tribal Government you're working with claims to be a California "State-Recognized Tribe"; that's blatantly false.

California does not have a Tribal Recognition Process.

The California Native American Heritage Commission does not have the authority to recognize tribes. Only the Bureau of Indian Affairs can do that. [Absent certification as a Tribe by the BIA, no action to protect tribal lands may be maintained, United States v. 43.47 Acres of Land, 855 F. Supp. 549, 551 (D. Conn. 1994)]

Research your Land Acknowledgment before you profess it.

Alameda is a model colonial city. Their Victorian houses, and expansive gardens have been written about for hundreds of years. Regular Alameda Garden Tours, and Alameda Legacy Home Tours extoll the virtues of Alameda's First Colonizers.

These historical celebrations routinely leave out facts, such as,

"This garden was fertilized by using human remains found in one of Alameda's three shellmounds."

Or,

"This sidewalk was constructed using one of the over 350 Native American bodies found in the 'Sather's Mound'."

The Alameda Museum is exclusively devoted to commemorating and memorializing Alameda's White History, while simultaneously ignoring and minimizing the existence and contributions of people of color; and the atrocities committed by those who are purported to be such heroic goliaths of Alameda History, today.

This is all done in the shadows of people like Rasheed Shabazz, someone who had to trace his own Alameda Legacy to bring us Black Alameda History, which was never touched upon, or even considered by an all-white museum staff, and curation team. [

Sure, the Alameda Museum invites us to search their archives. But the word "search" belies the onerous nature of digging through files and card catalogs which aren't actually indexed or organized in any useful way.

People always offer us the chance to do their work for them, like it's a favor to us.

But let's be clear: an archive that isn't indexed or organized is trash.

The real issue here, is that the Alameda Museum has existed for so long without ever: (a) indexing their holdings; (b) focusing on anything other than Alameda's White History; or (c) ever asking for permission to possess the Native American Funerary Objects, and Grave Goods in their possession....

The issue of Alameda Museum's possession of Native American Grave Goods and Funerary Objects is especially salient considering their absolute lack of respectful handling of the Historical Events Surrounding the Sather's Mound, and the Destruction and Morbid Uses for Alameda's Shellmounds.

Simply put;

Alameda Museum, if you're not going to engage the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe, ask for permission to possess their artifacts, and present respectful, and responsible, information regarding the First Alamedans: then you don't deserve to possess their artifacts.

Stay tuned for more.

When "The Spanish" came to the San Francisco Bay Area, they called all of the people who lived here "Costanoans"; and promptly killed, and corralled them into the California Missions; then began to colonize the land by bringing cows, catfish, eucalyptus, and other foreign plants and animals.

The primary language for the Mission San Jose was Miwok.

Miwok was a common language for most missions in the San Francisco Bay Area. But, Coast Miwok is the name of just one Tribal Group in the Northern Bay Area. In fact, Coast Miwok and Miwok consider themselves as distinct Tribal Groups of their own; and should not be confused with one another.

Richard Levy's 1978 essay, entitled "Costanoan", and featured in the California Volume of the Handbook of North American Indians, edited by Robert F. Heizer... has been widely relied upon since its publication. Despite its obvious errors, and out-dated nature. [For instance, the term "Costanoan" was already beginning to fall out of style. It was recognized as a blunt umbrella term for an entire region, which is actually diverse af.]

Before Richard Levy's 1978 "Costanoan" Essay was published, J.P. Harrington had already come through the Bay Area--in 1921--to document and study California Native American Languages. This is where Harrington documented the existence of a language called "Chochenyo"; and recorded it separately from the known Miwok Language.

In fact, it was Harrington, in 1921, who first recorded the phrase, "Yo soy lisjanes." Words spoken by Jose Guzman, the last Chochenyo speaker, and "Captain" of what was then known as the "Verona Band of Indians" by white people.

But the Verona Band was just a small part of a larger group known collectively today as Ohlone People.

It was noted, then--in 1921--that these languages (Chochenyo and Miwok) somehow fit into the "Penutian" Language Tree; and that a completely different group of people from the South-West of the Delta Area around Byron (ostensibly, the "other side" of Mount Diablo) spoke a Yokutian dialect.

In fact, from the work leading up to Richard Levy's 1978 "Costanoan" Essay, the following facts were already established, peer-reviewed, and easily discoverable by scholars such as Levy, and Alameda's Imelda Merlin--who was a UC Berkeley student herself, and within easy counsel of Kroeber, now infamous (and former) head of the UC Berkeley Anthropology Department, and Phoebe A. Hearst Museum....

Anyway, these established facts were:

• There is a group of Yokutian-speaking people who live on the East Side of Mount Diablo, up to at least the "Byron Delta Area", probably spanning farther east toward the Sierra Foothills--joining the rest of the Yokutian-speaking area;
• Neither Miwok, nor Chochenyo languages were related to the Yokutian-speaking Tribal Group in language, and diverged in custom;
• The aforementioned group of people were errantly included under the term "Costanoan", despite the obvious differences in language, religion, and culture;
• Miwok is a language, and also a Tribal Group;
• Coast Miwok and Miwok are two different Tribal Groups;
• Chochenyo is a separate and distinct language from Miwok, spoken by at least one East Bay Tribal Group that has called themselves the "Lisjanes"--and been called the "Verona Band", among other names;
• Both Miwok and Chochenyo are linguistically related to each other, as branches, not as derivatives of one or the other.

The detrimental effects of Richard Levy's work have undermined the fundamental understanding of the Indigenous Bay Area landscape, reducing it to something uniform, monolithic. The historical narrative Levy pushes in this work is out-dated; even for the time it was published.

It should also be noted that Levy's work presented several claims, conclusions, and information that simply wasn't corroborated or supported by citations, or other evidence.

In spite of these facts, the "Costanoan" essay is still relied upon by Park Services, City Governments, Developers, (and more,) today.

Levy's work has been heavily relied upon for a number of reasons:

1. It was published in what is still considered to be one of the most authoritative volumes to this day: The Handbook of North American Indians;
2. It's short;
3. It has pictures.

The map included with Levy's essay was heavily relied upon up until the seemingly arbitrary placement of markers, and borders were pointed out.

But let's be clear. The difference in time between when these papers were published in academic journals, and when they get published in books, like "The Indians of California: A Source Book" is notable enough for me to point out that the public side, and the interior, academic, research side of the the anthropology/archaeology/ethnology department are completely different. They move at completely different speeds.

And students/student-researchers are privy to material that just isn't available to anyone outside of that institution.

So let's shift gears to look at yet another scholar.

This one probably shouldn't even be cited as a reference for Alameda Native History, anymore--given lack of credible citations and research regarding what she termed as "Aboriginal Settlement".

Her name is Imelda Merlin, and her thesis was published as a book in 1977 as "Alameda: A Geographical History".

This book has been referred to as the Alameda "historical bible".

However, Merlin's thesis is actually dated in 1964--thirteen years before publication of her book. The thesis was submitted for partial satisfaction of the requirements for a Master's Degree in Geology.

Should I point out that Geology is not archaeology, anthropology, linguistics, or "ethnology" in any recognizable form? Because Geology is the study of the Earth. You know, like rocks, and how mountains were formed.

In the second chapter, "Aboriginal Settlement" [p. 16], Merlin presents a brief history of "man's" occupation of the area now known as Alameda.

Here, Merlin refers to Ohlone People (known then, at least, as the Lisyan, Costanoan, and Verona) as a "branch of the Miwok tribe". The citation for this claim refers to the unpublished, personal correspondence of Robert F. Heizer. It is unknown whether Merlin claims Robert F. Heizer shared this information during the interview, listed the bibliography; or whether there is a letter in Robert Fleming Heizer's correspondence file that says this.

But, remember the name Robert F. Heizer (aka "R. F. Heizer") because he's all over this.

Merlin did not cite any academic research paper, archaeological or ethnographical reports to support her assertion that Heizer said this; in spite of his own work--contrary to the preponderance of academic papers that Heizer compiled and published, himself.

If the interview in the bibliography was performed by Merlin, as the interviewer, how come she didn't include the transcript? If the interview wasn't performed by Merlin, who was it performed by? What was the date of the interview?

Is the Heizer interview in the bibliography the '(Heizer, Personal correspondence)' that Imelda Merlin refers to?

[Please, don't get me started on the maps.]"

Me, This Article

Yes, I honestly expected Imelda Merlin, in the 13 years between submitting her thesis, and publishing it as a book, to fix some of these issues. I expect anyone who has that much time between writing and printing, to have edited the [...] out of their manuscript.

This is troubling for a number of reasons; not the least of which is that Heizer (most probably) didn't say that.

Merlin's assertion that the unnamed tribe of Alameda, and its adjacent lands was "now thought to be", a "branch of miwok" really flies in the face of what Archaeologists, Anthropologists, and Ethnologists actually believed.

J.P. Harrington's 1921 Linguistic Survey of the Niles/Pleasanton area was well-known, and continues to be the authoritative reference concerning Ohlone People from Mission San Jose, and descendants, and family of Jose Guzman. Harrington's work (as already mentioned in length) makes a clear distinction between the Chochenyo, and Miwok language; as well as Miwok and the "Lisjanes".

In 1955, Alfred Kroeber, and Robert F. Heizer, had already written "Continuity of Indian Population in California From 1770/1848 to 1955". This work specifically distinguishes between "Miwok" and "Costanoan" people who appear in the Mission Rolls.

This was, of course, after publication of Robert Heizer's 1951, "Indians of the San Francisco Bay Area", in the Geologic Guidebook of the San Francisco Bay Counties (Bulletin #154); which made it clear:

The San Francisco peninsula, western Contra Costa County, and Alameda and Santa Clara Counties were the home of the Costanoan tribes."

First paragraph of the Preface to the "Indians of the San Francisco Bay Area", Geologic Guidebook of the San Francisco Bay Counties. Bulletin 154, Division of Mines, Ferry Building, San Francisco, 1951.

Mind you, "Costanoan" territory started out as the whole of the San Francisco Bay Area, and then kept getting smaller, and more defined, until it became the area we now associate with Ohlone Territory.

Ohlone Territory is the area from Yelamu, to Huchiun Aguasto, from below Ssalson, to way far down, past Carmel, and well into the Santa Cruz Mountains.

In Merlin's second Heizer citation, "The California Indians", we are brought to what was considered the sequel of....

The Handbook of the Indians of California, mentioned above, was also edited by Robert Heizer (aka "Robert F. Heizer", aka "Robert Fleming Heizer".)

So, Heizer is all over this stuff. As an editor, and a contributing author.

Of all the works bearing Heizer's name, the "Indians of California" took pains to specify, exactly, the relationships of the Tribal Groups of California with each other.

This came out in the form of maps, data tables, and hundreds of pages of narrative.

Despite some of the most "authorative", widely publicized, even celebrated source material on the "Indians of California" at her finger-tips.

In her own citations.

Somehow....

Merlin writes:

Man was present on the shores of San Francisco Bay at least 3500 years ago according to Carbon-14 tests made of shellmound material (Gifford, pp. 1-29). Since at least one mound has revealed a layer of skeletal material below the present ground level, in much the same way as did the Emeryville mound, presumably Indians now thought to have been a branch of Miwok Indians, (Heizer, personal correspondence) occupied the Encinal as early as they did the adjacent areas."

"Alameda: A Geographical History", Imelda Merlin, 1977, Friends of the Alameda Library, Alameda Musuem, Alameda, California, [p.16]

The most important fact here is that the word "Costanoan" isn't mentioned at all.

"Well, that's what people thought in 1964." Was one reply, when I brought up this in recent conversation with Valerie Turpin, VP of the Alameda Museum Board.

But it isn't the Miwok who people thought occupied the Encinal as early as they did the adjacent areas.

In 1964, people thought Native Americans from the San Francisco Bay Area were called "Costanoans". People already knew that Costanoans were different, and distinct from Miwok, Pomo, Delta Yokuts, and all the rest of the "Indians of California".

I expressed my confusion as to why Imelda Merlin would be so wrong. I shared with Turpin the breakdown of Merlin's sources, including the "most authoritative" sources by A.L. Kroeber, and Robert F. Heizer.

I also mentioned other work, which was published, just one year after Imelda Merlin's book was published. It's called "The Ohlone Way".

Malcom Margolin wrote, or contributed, to three of the most famous books about Native Americans in the San Francisco Bay Area:

• The Ohlone Way
• The Way We Lived
• Life in a California Mission (Introduction)

These are non-fiction narrative books; collections of stories, and songs; not academic research papers, or post-graduate theses.

Even though they're made by a white man, for a white audience, Margolin's work was the kind of stuff that brought solace, as I pined for home. Oh yeah, and the references to Margolin's work can be found in Park Service Project Plans, CEQA filings, Berkeley City Council Briefs, etc.--right next to the references to Levy, and Heizer we've already covered, above.

Certainly, Margolin would be a fine resource to consult, when curating an exhibit on the First Alamedans, and the way they lived.

More recent events have brought the fact that Alameda is Ohlone land into the forefront of the conscious of almost every person who lives here.

Those, of course, were the visible protest actions against housing development in West Berkeley [which isn't where the shellmound actually is]; and, before that, the takeover of Wintun/Patwin land, in Vallejo, by an activist who was the self-proclaimed "chairwoman" of the corporation known as the Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC, which claimed to be a forgotten Ohlone Tribe.

In reality, Corrina Gould was a rogue "fallen member" of the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area; who refused to go back home, even though Muwekma offered her enrollment in the tribe.

Despite the bad optics, and the confusion, we now know that, "Ohlone People are The Native American People From the San Francisco Bay Area".

Because of all of this "awareness", a City of Alameda park was renamed to "Chochenyo Park", in recognition of the Ohlone language spoken in the Alameda area.

The City of Alameda even voted to donate city funds to the Sogorea Te Land Trust, a purportedly Ohlone Land Trust, using the Wintun name for Glen Cove, in Vallejo... and has no affiliation to any Tribal Government, whatsoever. [FYI: Nonprofit corporations cannot be Tribal Governments because the exercise of Tribal Sovereignty is not a "Charitable Purpose".]

The City stopped short of issuing a Land Acknowledgement, though.

But this seems like enough for the Alameda Museum to take notice, and update their website, and exhibits.

But the issue still lingers:

Why didn't the Alameda Museum vet Imelda Merlin's book?

Why didn't they check the citations?

When asked why the Alameda Museum only relied upon this one resource for their information (Imelda Merlin's book), I was told that they are simply sharing the information the Museum was given when the Native American Grave Goods from the Alameda Shellmounds were transferred from the possession of the Alameda Free Library, to the Alameda Museum, sometime in the 1970's.

But what about the ethical, and legal duties behind possessing, and curating, Native American Grave Goods?

What about:

1. Proper identification of the Native American Grave Goods, and Native American Artifacts in the Alameda Museum's possession?
2. Proper attribution of Native American Grave Goods, and Native American Artifacts to the correct Tribal Group?
3. Asking the Native American Tribes for permission to possess the Native American goods and objects already in their possession?

I mentioned the prosecution of David van Horne, and how he was ordered to return the Native American Grave goods as a function of law. And how pursuant suits have ended in order to return the goods to the tribe's possession "just because that's the law."

I let Valerie Turpin know that simply possessing the Native American Grave Goods without permission put them in violation of the NAGPRA laws.

She told me that the Museum had reached out to a few groups, and was working on that. I asked her if the Confederated Villages of the Lisjan, INC. was one of the groups, and informed her that I'm now the CEO of that corporation; as of January 2022.

I told Valerie that the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area is the actual Ohlone Tribe of this area: Named In Treaty.

But that the California Native American Heritage Commission is the proper authority to contact, to determine who the Most Likely Descendants are, for the things in the Alameda Museum's possession.

When it came to discussing "help"; voluminous reminders that the Alameda Museum is entirely run by volunteers, I just have to get this out of the way:

1. Museums are supposed to be an authority on their subject.
2. We expect museums to verify the authenticity and provenance of their exhibits before curating them.
3. Being "volunteer run" should not be an excuse for why the Alameda Museum's exhibits are less credible than a 4th Grade Science Fair Project.

What did I want to do to help?

When the Alameda Museum and I first met: I offered to scan the entire card catalog with our production scanner that scans at 130 Pages Per Minute. This was just because I wanted to find what I was looking for; and scanning the entire catalog seemed like a win for both of us. I specifically mentioned that it would be a good time, then, because of the COVID-19 Lockdown, and this extended period of free time.

I never heard back on that offer. [I didn't think the Alameda Museum took me seriously.]

But, I remembered. And, when I brought it up, I learned that the Alameda Museum Card Catalog had been entirely scanned, and was now in a database. That database, while not public (and still being worked on), was available to be searched only in the Alameda Museum.

So I basically asked how come the Alameda Museum didn't just search its own database. Turpin asked me if I would help research.

I responded that the Alameda Museum has the only holdings on this subject that I haven't seen. They (the museum) probably have the only remaining primary sources regarding this subject. And, that, once they locate their materials, that I (of course) would be able to cross-reference that with everything that I already have, and have put together.

Then she asked if I made that map of the shellmounds in Alameda.

Yeah.

Valerie mentioned the problem. The problem that these artifacts could be taken and locked away from the world's view forever. And I really understand that fear. Because I feel it, too. As a lover of history. As an inquiry-based, tactile, experience-seeking, life-long learner.

I told her the California Indian Museum had the same problem. But they solved it. By "inviting contemporary Native Americans to come and make some contemporary Native American stuff." The whole museum is filled with it. It's in Sacramento, California. And it's beautiful.

We left it there.

But here is the link to the California State Indian Museum.

Stay tuned to find out what happens next.

NOTE: This article was amended to include a brief mention of the California State Indian Museum's solution to the idea that Native American Grave Good, Artifacts, Objects, Resources, and Other Things could simply be "locked up" and "no one could see them." Because these Native American Artifact Laws do have a chilling effect on the activities of Museums.

While being billed and paid for as an "homage to the gentle savages which once roamed the coasts and hills of this area thousands of years ago":

Many of the images presented to you as "Native American Art", and installed in places like Parks, Malls, Skate Parks, and other Public Spaces, and "Public Arenas", are actually the romanticized interpretations by (a) someone who is not Native American and, (b) does not know enough about their subject matter to truly allegorize the sacred dances, symbols, and objects they attempt to vivify.

The result is a vitiated version of true Native American Cultural Representation Through Art. An impoverished image of who we are, and our physical connection to The Earth; The Animals; Our Ancestors; And All Of Us.

These images are created with the "understanding" that Native Americans are gone. That we no longer live in a physical sense.

We take up space in the imaginary place the artist has created. In the place with forests, and mesas; and lakes; and horses; and deer; and the Wolf howling at the Moon; and Iron Eyes Cody.

It's probably the same place in your head....

The same place where "Indian Blankets" are half off. Where you can buy your own "Native American flute" out of a bucket at the door. Next to the Cigar Store Indian; and the "You Are On Stolen Land" t-shirts.

These images don't just affect you. They affect us.

One: It Makes Us Forget Who We Are

Aside from beating us down by starvation literally; economically; educationally; culturally; and spiritually: these images help erase our sense of individuality in both Tribal and Personal identities.

We are enshrouding ourselves with the stereotypes they created for us.

We are letting them convince us that this is who we are. That we don't exist unless we conform to these images. Their idea of "American Indians", "Gentle Savages", "Proud Chiefs", and "Sexy Squaw". Those are Halloween costumes.

We're convincing ourselves that, unless we aren't beading, or praying, or posting performative "Indian" [stuff] on social media that we aren't Indians. That we don't exist without the identities they try to place on us.

But we do. And that's the First Way Public Art Promotes Pan-Indian Confusion: It makes us forget who we are.

Like, who we really are.

Two: Pan-Indian Images, Made By Non-Native Artists, Shut Out Contemporary and Authentic Native American Art and Voices (and create false subject matter experts, who only perpetuate the myths of colonization.)

The artists who rendered these images we see in public become considered subject matter experts, and go on to create more "culturally appropriate" or "culturally inspired" artwork for architects, corporations like tech companies, and more city governments, and municipalities.

These works of art are now cited as "Native American works"; and referred to as historically & culturally accurate representations of people--who are very much real, and alive, today--as though they were no longer here.

They contribute to the myth that we've just disappeared, somehow.

This is effectively re-colonizing these places with attenuated versions of us; homogenized stereotypes of the "Indians of California". Representing the sanitized beginning, middle, and end of an entire civilization that "wasn't" murdered, buried in mass graves; and pulverized, to be hidden in the very cornerstones of the institutions designed to govern them out of existence.... And yet, still came out fighting like Schrödinger's Cat

These works of Public Art help to indoctrinate new generations into the Myth of The Colonization of California. The one where we all just simply disappeared; were "killed by the Spanish"; or "became Mexicans." …That California was open, lush, and willing.

This not only prevents true Native American Artists from being featured, or recognized in their own homelands. But, the popularity, and entrenched nature of Public Art (something that's usually made of steel, or metal, and set in concrete), literally cements these images in the public eye; helping to gloss over, and tune out the real history, living voices, and work of contemporary Native Americans as people and artisans. In favor of the commercialized, white-washed, Pan-Indian images and stereotypes that stalk us everywhere we go.

We have to stop considering non-native people as the gatekeepers of Native American culture, or the experts on our lives, and lived experiences.

Three: Works of Public Art Do Not Absolve Governments of Their Duty to Recognize and Honor Native American People

Public Artwork concerning Native American People should do the following:

1. Never be a sculpture of a Native American person, unless it was actually made and designed by a Native American person, or a person of Native American Descent.
2. Be built/created/assembled by Native American people;
3. In print: acknowledge the Native American Genocide, California Genocide, or the Mass Murder and Removal of Native Americans for the Exploitation of Their Land and Natural Resources as the reason why the viewer is standing in an outdoor mall, and not a lush field--with rivers, fresh air, salmon, and singing forest animals--today;
4. Recognize the People Whose Land We Are On by Name, and the name of the Tribal Nation as it may appear in Treaty;
5. Recognize that Public Art cannot undo the past, but it is a way that we can all remember our history, honor our ancestors, and heal together from the sins of our fathers.

Public Art is a component, and not the whole solution.

These things should be employed in concert with serious policies of Native American Inclusion & Acknowledgment, like:

• Native American Representation in City Government, City Events, City Planning
• Renaming of Some Parks, Streets, Schools, and Other Public Buildings/Spaces
• Establishing Historical Sites and Districts
• Rehabilitating, Maintaining, and Protecting the Local Environment
  • Consider doing these things in a sustainable way, with native plants, non-neonicotinoid pest control, and by eliminating nitrogen (fertilizer) run-off.
• Specifically Prohibiting Development in "Restricted Resource Zones"
• Actively soliciting local Native American people, artists, and historians, for input and education about their history.

Just for starters.

Stay tuned....

Links in this Article/More Reading:

https://alamedasun.com/news/new-public-art-place-north-shore

https://indiancountrytoday.com/archive/true-story-pocahontas-historical-myths-versus-sad-reality

The Alameda Museum was founded in 1948; seventy-four years ago. It is a public institution, which is dedicated to fostering public interest in the history of Alameda.

The mission of the Alameda Museum is three-fold:

1. To accumulate, catalog, conserve, and display appropriate documents, photographs, objects, and artifacts relating to the city and its residents;
2. To foster the preparation and publication of materials relating to the history of the city and its residents; and,
3. to provide educational opportunities and experiences relating to the history of the city and its residents.

In these 74 years, the Alameda Museum has focused almost exclusively on a few things in Alameda's history:

• The Victorian Era Colonization of Alameda, including:
  • Historic Alameda Home and Garden Tour
  • Historic Architecture
• Railways:
  • Trans-Continental Railway Terminus (Western Pacific Railroad)
  • Narrow Gauge Commuter & Regional Railways
• Neptune Beach - often referred to as the "Coney Island of The West"
• [Sterilized] Biographies of People Who Lived In Alameda:
  • Exclusively white people;
  • Almost exclusively rich;
  • Often responsible for racist or discriminatory policies, or just went on record (themselves) as having racist beliefs;
  • Sometimes donors to the museum;
  • Furthers the idea of White Exceptionalism, while excluding everyone else.

On its face, Alameda is being billed as the Bay Area's "playground of the rich", a "Garden Island Paradise", the "Coney Island of the West"....

A place held as a shining example of Western Conquest,
The pinnacle of [White] Society.

The embodiment of "manifest destiny", proof of divine providence; and vindication for everything America did in the name of White Supremacy, and the freedom to believe in White Exceptionalism.

This is the paradise white people had to build, to justify everything.

Because, if the "Second Great Awakening" was just a lie; and white people weren't chosen to rape, pillage, and burn every village they encountered.... If God didn't give them a pass for enslaving other humans, or any of the other atrocious shit Protestantism, or Christianity, or whatever says "He" gave them a pass for... that means something unimaginable. And white people would never have had to deal with it, if they had just killed us all. But they didn't.

And, the short-term thinking behind a blitzkrieg that left people alive is coming home to roost now. Because we are still alive. And the affects of white terror, and the attempted genocide, exclusion, abuse, and torture of human people has never been fully addressed by white people. In fact it makes them really fucking uncomfortable. It should.

It's easier to exclude us from history when no one's around to tell the story. White people certainly haven't talked about it. So, it never happened, right?

This fantasy "Victorian paradise island" narrative continues to be presented, despite the obvious cracks in its alabaster facade. Despite the sustained objections to Alameda Museum's focus on only white, colonial history, and the museum's neglect & omission of non-white history during any month which isn't an [AAPI/Black/Indigenous/...] History Month.

But, the Alameda Museum Displays Native American Artifacts....

It's true that the Alameda Museum has Native American Artifacts. Some of these are actually Ohlone Grave Goods, stolen from the shellmound on Mound Street. (And all of them were mis-attributed to "a branch of Miwok".)

Let's be honest, though: a collection of mortars and arrowheads, and a picture of the dedication of the plaque at Lincoln Park to the people found in the the Shellmound at Mound Street, doesn't really cover the story.

The Alameda Museum isn't capable of answering questions about the Native American Artifacts they have on display, much less the history of anyone else. So, they refer people immediately to the Alameda Free Library any time there is a query on this topic, or pretty much any other topic that isn't Alameda's White History.

Shellmounds are cemeteries. The plaque in Lincoln Park has a number of Native American remains recovered and used to pave Bay Farm Road: 350.

When you call the Alameda Museum to ask about the shellmounds, the "alameda indian mounds", you might get someone who actually tells you that shellmounds were trash heaps. Which is so shockingly ignorant, you have to ask if you're really calling a museum.

The Alameda Museum has no mention of this event, or the practice of using shellmounds to fertilize the gardens that Alameda was so famous for.

Even the gardens at the Meyer Home, which is owned and curated by the Alameda Museum, were fertilized using Ohlone remains from the Shellmounds of Alameda.

The Meyer Home, sits on an estate with four buildings.

One of which has exhibits dedicated to architectural salvage, and building design. There is another building (almost an accessory dwelling unit) which serves as an art gallery. And yet another adobe-like structure which held more objects from expeditions in Africa, and other things which rich white people in the Late 19th, and Early 20th Centuries would collect as "curios".

The author would like to note that the abundance of objects, like: furniture, architectural salvage, dolls, toys, fashion accessories, the Kitchen Display & Lady's Study, and more; which clutter the Alameda Museum belong in, and would be marvelously curated in a house.

Seems like a lot of unnecessary work to recreate and maintain the facsimiles of rooms in a house, when the Meyer House is available as a museum itself; the way the USS Hornet - Sea, Air and Space Museum is an aircraft carrier; and the Air Naval Museum is an air terminal.

This would actually give the Alameda Museum the space to focus on curating the City of Alameda's History beyond just its founding, and Victorian Era.

Alameda Black, AAPI, and Indigenous History Have More Parallels than Intersections

In the context of the Alameda Museum: our representation is limited to brief, tokenized explanations of our existence, without the revelation of Alameda's history of racism and discriminatory practices. These recognitions and acknowledgements only come once a year, during our respective "History Months".

Even though the Alameda Museum Lecture Series invites people to lecture on their personal experiences, heritage, history, and culture, there are still no permanent exhibits to nonwhite history. So, when the echoes of our voices fade from the walls of the Eagle Hall, so does any representation of us and our existence throughout Alameda history.

We'll circle back to this.

The Alameda Museum is not the only museum which exists in the city.

There are four other museums:

• The Pacific Pinball Museum
• California Historical Radio Society Museum
• USS Hornet - Sea, Air and Space Museum
• Alameda Naval Air Museum

Here's how their multicultural representation breaks down....

I was actually really surprised by the positive representation in the Air Naval Museum. I really enjoyed listening to some KDIA playlists I found through the California Historical Radio Society. And the inclusion of the Walking Ghosts of Black History into the USS Hornet's programming is awesome, and a long time coming.

Pacific Pinball Museum

I found out "#pinballsowhite" is a thing. And, pinball does use a lot of racist, and sexist imagery. I'm not sure what I was expecting to find, but the answer is "racist". Pinball has historically used racist, and offensive images.

California Historical Radio Society Museum

I found an article about KDIA Boss Soul Radio. Which is really cool. And I was surprised to find this information. But music is black af. I don't care what you think about Elvis, or the Beatles, or Bob Dylan, they all stole that shit from Robert Johnson.

USS Hornet - Sea, Air and Space Museum

Recently, during the month of February, Black History Month, of 2022, the USS Hornet hosted three exhibits by The Walking Ghosts of Black History. These exhibits were on the hangar deck--next to the Apollo Mission stuff--and featured:

1. African American Medal of Honor Recipients
2. Outstanding African American Achievements in the United States Military
3. African American Military Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics Program Participants [think: NASA; like Katherine Johnson, and Guy Bluford.]

This isn't the first time the Hornet has hosted The Walking Ghosts of Black History, either. It almost makes up for the fact that The Hornet has almost no black representation, normally. (They do have a whole section for Japanese-Americans who served during the war, however. Which is actually really intense, and the most reverent section of the entire ship, IMHO.)

Alameda Air Naval Museum

The Alameda Air Naval Museum is devoted to the history of the Alameda Naval Air Station. I was actually worried I wouldn't find anything about Black People or African American History, because the USS Hornet didn't seem to have anything the first time around.

But I found a really nice obituary, and biography, of Clifton Wainright. Clifton was employed at the Alameda Naval Air Station as a Program Manager, and Flight Test Engineer. He was also the first black All City quarterback and the first black Oakland Tribune “Athlete of the Year".

Overall, I was pretty impressed by the thoughtful and meaningful efforts to curate inclusive, and relevant history, and happy that I found what I did. I actually learned a lot.

Representation isn't just showing a face or a picture, it's recognizing the contributions of that person, and their excellence and achievements, in their field.

These bits of history from other museums stimulated my curiosity, and fascination. I want to learn more about Alameda History:

I want to see what the Chinese Gardens looked like, as a model. I want to be introduced to their garden designs, crop management practices, and the vegetables they grew to feed Alameda.

I want to see a wall with portraits of the African American families who came to Alameda around the passage of the 13th Ammendment for the Abolition of Slavery. And I want to see their kitchens, fashion accessories, fancy dress, architectural salvage, and business displays, too.

I want to know about the BVs, and the housing on the former Alameda Naval Air Station. I want to know if the Alameda Housing Authority was really liquidated to pay for the Chuck Corica Alameda Municipal Golf Course.

I yearn for an Alameda Museum which is inclusive, accurate, and fair. And I think it's their duty, as a public institution, to provided history relevant to all Alamedans.

I want to be super clear here: this has nothing to do with the fact the Alameda Museum is volunteer-run. The Black Panther Party For Self Defense was also volunteer-run. The Alameda Native History Project is also volunteer-run.

The issue is that the Alameda Museum is supposed to be a city museum. It is supposed to curate and present to us the history of Alameda. Not just a small slice of some zealously over-idealized fantasy of an island that did not exist the same way for People of Color.

The issue is that the Alameda Museum has excluded us. All of us.

And when you actually look at the history of Alameda, you can see why: Alameda was a town full of really racist white people, who definitely did not want to de-segregate housing; and who have reaped all the benefits and rewards of the discriminatory policies laid by the founders of this island, and re-inforced subsequently by acts of the City Council up until ... when? The 1990's? Some people would say it's till happening.

Why Making Marginalized People Do The Work You Never Did, Isn't the Win You Think It Is

The Alameda Museum was open for 70 years before they offered a single "permanent" exhibit on African-American History, in 2018.

At this time, George Gunn, was celebrating his 47th year as Curator of the Alameda Museum. (His first day was March 20, 1971, according to an Alameda Museum publication.) So, this would also mark the first time in 47 years of curating Alameda History that he's ever actually curated the history of nonwhite Alamedans.

Though, if you visit the museum's website, you will notice this exhibit isn't listed anywhere. In fact, the only reporting on the existence of this exhibit is from Rasheed Shabazz, in 2018. Probably because he did all the work of getting the exhibit installed.

The reason this exhibit even existed was because it was a half-hearted attempt to address the extensive, and documented history of racist actions and policies committed or enacted by the City of Alameda--specifically racial housing discrimination, and forced re-location of Alameda's Black Families--

And to respond to direct criticism of Alameda Museum's Curator, George Gunn, as someone who is uninterested in curating anything other than white, colonial, history--to the point of excluding the history of any other group of people, and obstructing research by people of color, by gatekeeping, and denying that materials on anything other than Alameda's White History even exists within the Alameda Museum's Archive.

Other authors ignore–or are ignorant of–Black Alamedans, and choose to focus primarily on architectural preservation. George Gunn, curator of the Alameda Historical Museum’s book Documentation of Victorian and Post Victorian Residential and
Commercial Buildings, City of Alameda, 1854 to 1904, painstakingly compiles Alameda housing records, yet does not include the lost homes of the Hackett brothers at 1608
Union and 1828 Grand St.

Rasheed Shabazz, "Alameda Is Our Home", 2013, University of California Bachelor's Thesis in African American Studies, Social Science.

In fact, George Gunn's unresponsive, and dismissive treatment of the research into Alameda's nonwhite history by people of color has been noted by several historians, and researchers. Take this other quote from Rasheed Shabazz's Tumblr account (DaSquareBear):

In 2012, i visited the Museum when i started my research. I asked the curator, George Gunn, if the Museum had materials related to African Americans in Alameda. He mentioned the Clintons, but directed me to the library instead.

On February 10, 2018, during my first Black Alameda Walking Tour, we stopped at the Clinton home. An heir of the family told me that they had donated materials to the museum.

I visited that afternoon. The material was in four boxes. Gunn showed me the materials. When he showed me the glasses and told me, “They were of substance…. they had nice things.”

I replied, “They lived. That makes them of substance.”

Rasheed Shabaz, March 10, 2018, via Tumblr

Rasheed Shabazz wrote "'Alameda Is Our Home': African Americans and the Struggle for Housing in Alameda, California, 1860-Present", for his bachelor's thesis. It's extraordinarily researched. Has a great voice, and measured perspective. It deserves to be re-published, and celebrated, just like Imelda Merlin's "Alameda: A Geological History". Except Shabazz' work is better, because it's actually about the people of Alameda.

This seems to be the only research, or work published on Alameda's African-American History, where African-American History is the sole focus. And the first mention of the African-American, or Black History, of Alameda, by the Alameda Museum, in its entire existence.

This work was also created without the help of the Alameda Museum.

Because of curator George Gunn's obstruction, it's sadly notable that Shabazz did not have access to the Alameda Museum's archives--a trove of primary sources, and relevant artifacts--while he researched the history of Alameda. This means that there are more materials, and stories, which are actively being excluded from Alameda's history by (of all institutions) the Alameda Museum.

Not only did Shabazz finally gain access to some of the materials he was looking for, the Alameda Museum made him a Director, and Shabazz holds walking tours, and organizes lectures on Black History every February.

But is this really a win? A seat at the table where you can't eat; and the "privilege" of doing their work for them? There is no African American exhibit, anymore. That's a back-step. The Alameda Museum still has no meaningful representation of any other group. And Shabazz has fallen silent on these issues since becoming a Director at the Alameda Museum.

This raises uncomfortable memories, and even more uncomfortable questions. As someone who used to be "invited" to take part in the annual "Thanksgiving Show" at a radio station, somewhere in the North Bay, I know what being the token person of your race feels like. And I have been placated by shallow buy-ins, and bald-faced lies, as a youth organizer.

So, when I see Rasheed Shabazz's name and face on flyers. Hear his voice speaking in lectures. Then watch, as the Alameda Museum quietly removes the Clinton Family exhibit, and relegates Shabazz to Black History Month only. And all the energy and movement behind representation suddenly stop.... It looks like the usual pattern of pacification and superficial conciliation.

What can you do to help?

Call the Alameda Museum: (510) 521-1233

Let them know that 74 years of focusing exclusively on White History is enough.

Email the Alameda Museum