John Arambula

A Man Called “ISHI”

September 16, 2020 by John Arambula 2 Comments

A long, long time ago, right around the dawn of the 20th century—a millisecond as far as time goes—there was a man, a red man of indigenous descent, whose name was Ishi. He lived in California’s Sierra Nevada foothills in the small mountain range called “The Buttes,” near Lake Orville. Born in 1861, here were many more of his people, including his mother and sister, who walked those same lands.

His people were called Yahi Indians, but with great sadness it pains me beyond words to tell you that by the time Ishi left this world, in the year of our Creator, 1916, he was the last of his tribe—a people that had roamed their lands for many thousands of years or since the dawn of time.

They roamed their lands long before even Moses led his people away from Pharaoh and bondage, and long before Queen Isabella asked Christopher Columbus, with her money, to navigate the seven seas.

Ishi’s tribe, the Yahi, lived a wild and free nomadic life that was precious to them. For four and a quarter centuries, they lived, which may seem like an eternity. In reality, however, 424 years is not long at all when considered in terms of when the earth, supposedly, went “big bang boom.”

Yet, that same 424 years was all it took for Ishi’s people to become extinct. What saddens me even more, right to my very core, is that the Yahi tribe was not the only tribe that left this world. Becoming extinct in the name of Christianity, European expansion, manifest destiny, and events like a great land rush on this North American continent, many others suffered the same fate, other tribes like the Anasazi and the Makah are also gone.

These were people who tried to help and guide wayward travelers, yet they were all dealt the ultimate blow of injustice and indignity amongst all the nations of the world. That is what happened, not only to the red, indigenous, American Indian called Ishi, but to many others. This man and his tribe must never be forgotten, not just for who they were, but so we can recognize the sea of darkness they encountered that caused their demise

The Native Blanket

August 10, 2020 by John Arambula Leave a Comment

Long ago in days of old, and very much so today, there has always been, and still is, one gift given between indigenous souls—a gift that stands highest amongst all others. It is a gift of love, a gift of life, a gift of much appreciation for the recipient’s mere existence. The gift that I speak of is a gift that is meant to endure as well as protect—it is the gift of, the “native blanket.”

This most prominent gift, is usually given to one at birth. It is meant to bring one’s soul and spirit closer, not only to the creator, Father Sky, but most importantly, Mother Earth. Ideally the native blanket is handmade. It provides warmth, comfort, love and, shade—shade from any bad mojo or spirits who are angry and not easily swayed.

The native blanket has special meaning amongst all of the 573 registered tribes of America today. It is has had a special meaning for many moons and many suns ago, from way “back in the day.” Being a Native American from the Great American Southwest, I know and have seen firsthand, the look of joy and endearment on one’s face when given a handmade native blanket as a gift later in life.

And whether by design or not, the native blanket provides warmth on cold winter nights in the desert, and adds comfort as bedding when it is hot.

Oh, what a gift the native blanket is, not just for the newborn, but anytime in one’s life. If for nothing else, it is a symbolic message of love, faith and family.

What a precious gift, the Native Blanket truly is!

The Indian Man

December 31, 2019 by John Arambula Leave a Comment

The Indian man is a red skinned warrior; an equally counted and equally created man. A man, who not only has a great respect for himself, but also for his people; not just for some, or a few, but for all in his beautiful homeland.

A man whose ancestors, and their ancestors, have lived here since time first began; people whose blood has been spilled throughout much of this same big and beautiful American land.

Yet, even with knowing of all the hardships, oppression, persecution, and tribulations that his people have faced in darkened days gone by, at the hands of European invaders and other foreign crusaders, the modern and proud Indian man tries to live a life without shame, blame, disdain or in an umbrageous sort of way, towards those of today, whose ancestors tortured and maligned his people in such cold and callous way.

The proud Indian man, who believes that God Almighty is the Creator, and the Creator is God Almighty, who wants us all to be good to one another. We are to show, much love and respect,regardless of race, color or creed, towards our fellow human beings.

After all, this world, this gift, does not just belong to them or us, or to him or to her. No Sir, no ma’am, it should belong to no one. It is for all of us to share, to care and hopefully enjoy together to the fullest, without lines of demarcation or ownership by those of hearts without pity or lack of respect for our precious Mother Earth, the land itself.

The Indian man, is a man who always shows the greatest of love, and appreciation, of all that he has been given; gifts given from the Creator without monetary value as a means of measure.

And hopefully, one day, it is my sincere hope, that when my time has come to an end, and my next life’s journey has just begun, that people will say that I, John Torres Arambula, too, was that same kind of Indian man.

Hear Me My People

November 13, 2019 by John Arambula Leave a Comment

Hear me, my chiefs. Please, hear me wise elder Indian woman. Hear me young Indian braves and mighty warriors. Hear me beautiful young Indian maiden. And most of all, hear me all young red children and our ancestors alike.

For long now we had struggled. For so long now we have been oppressed. For too long now, like the land, like all the Creator’s gifts, we have been ravaged by rage. Ravaged by rage so dastardly, so cowardly, so defiantly, that at times it seems that we have been turned into nothing but the dirt of the land. That a polished America would rather close its eyes and turn its head, so as not to see the red ones like you and me; like the ashes that fall to the ground as we dance and burn the sacred Sage.

Drawing illustration of a native american indian chief warrior with headdress facing side set on isolated background.

Hear me now, my red sisters and brethren alike. Hear me as I say to you, that we must now make our point and take a stand. We must make our voices heard—loud, strong and clear—and not just wave our hands, with our fingers in the air.

Please. Hear me, my red family, as I say once again, that we must be loud enough to be heard, by not only ourselves but also by those in charge—the government men, who they themselves, do not know, but who are all but a group of ignorant, un-compassionate, robotic, workshop elves.

Hear me, all government men and ladies alike, and those who stand unjustly in the shadows as well. For 525 years you have beguiled, tattered, slammed, and battered us—our women, our children, and our Mother Earth, the land itself.

Maybe, if you felt as American Indians, Mr. Government Man, after all you have done to shame and disparage us; sent here to do all that you have done, in the form or by the existence of the Creator’s hand, then, and only then, maybe we would understand.

But as we see it, all you have come here to do with us and the land, as accorded by your ruling hand, is what must be a part of the devil’s grand plan and evil brand.

So please hear me, Mr. Government Man, as we ask you when—when will you one-day wake up from your demonic sleep, to see us as red-skinned, red-blooded Americans, not as problematic, abominations of nature, but literally as your fellow man? Hear me, ALL people. Please, hear me!

Indian Maiden as Beautiful as the Land

October 13, 2019 by John Arambula Leave a Comment

Indian maiden, as beautiful as the land. Indian maiden, your beauty is as endless as the multitude of stars that hang high in the midnight sky—the same stars that nightly kiss the soft grasses of the great plains. It is a beauty that is not of only one, but all ladies of American Indian descent.

Indian maiden, through the annals of history, people have written, quoted, sang, and spoken of the beauty that is the moon. When I get lost in myself and think of that fact, I feel that your beauty, and it is at least a million miles past that. I feel it especially when the moon is full, on a deep and clear summer’s night.

Indian maiden, I say to you, that no other woman could light the match, much less hold the candle to you. Your beauty radiates and permeates my mind, my heart, and my soul.

There is no doubt, beautiful Indian maiden, that your beauty is as pure and timeless as the poems of Yeats, Frost, or even Poe’s masterpiece, “The Raven,” that he penned from deep inside his soul.

Indian maiden, even as you begin to grow old, your beauty is one; one sure to hold for now, for then, and for evermore.

So please, Indian maiden, do not dispute or try to refute these simple words of fact and truth. Be ever so thankful, great indigenous lady, as am I, that the Creator made only one, not two, because he shattered the mold—the mold that cast the image of you; and not just in this life, but in the next life too.

With the utmost pride and respect, I say: Please, beautiful Indian maiden, remember always and remember well, your beauty is without boundaries, without limits, indescribable, unbreakable, unwavering, without fault or shame. It is infinite.

Mother Earth

August 12, 2019 by John Arambula Leave a Comment

One day, as I walked along one of her glorious, paths, I could not help but wonder how long Mother Earth would last. After all, the Creator gave us to her and her to us—it was to be a relationship that the Creator thought would be based on trust.

When Mother Earth has bare, she bred, coddled, and nourished us. Man, in return, has done nothing but pillage and plunder the Creator’s precious gifts—the gifts He made especially for and gave to us.

Man has cut down trees in forests of rain. Man has also killed some species to where they no longer exist amongst the rest of us. Man has contaminated many waters and polluted Father Sky. The air has been filled with toxins, causing the sky to shed many tears of acid rain.

And man has done all that and so much more without compassion; without mind and without heart, causing irrefutable damage for our children and their children, as well as our precious Mother Earth.

Mother Earth, I would say, needs our help; help to survive and sustain life, for life as we know it to be.

If not, our grandchildren will not survive till 50, much less 103. The Creator, Father Sky, and Mother Earth are always wise and awake. So I suggest we all join them, instead of closing our eyes in excess slumber, or only turning our heads so that we do not notice the damage that we wreak.

The answer to my question, truly, nobody knows. It would be like asking which way today shall the wind blow, or will it rain enough this year to help the farmer’s crops grow? Only the Creator knows how long Mother Earth will go.

But we, as humans, truly do not know.