“In Our Own Words”
Fourths of July
By Cynthia W. Connell
Today, as an Indian,
On these Fourths of July,
In gesture of atonement
You choose me to pray.
In benediction I bow,
Not to hallow your crimes,
Or tender a blessing
Upon all that you took.
Continents embezzled,
Identities despoiled,
To purify your oppression
No gratitude is proffered.
For cliffs, sloping seaward,
Breached by ceaseless tides,
And wagon rutted trailways
I tender no tokens of grace.
In this moment, closing eyes,
To all that you have done,
A combined hush settles
Suggestive of unity.
“Help us remember, Great Lord,
All that thou hast given
Purify this bloodied ground
Shedding each despairing drop.
Untie the bindings, Kind Lord,
Compressing breathless lungs
Constricting anguished hearts
Denying our aching sobs.
Unblind captive eyes, Oh Lord,
To thy glorious sacred light
Heal our sightlessness
Giving mercy filled vision.
Bring your holiness, Dear Lord,
Imbuing with power
To reanimate our souls
Scouring clean faithless pasts.
Sanctify us, Mighty Lord,
Sunder each stone like heart
Untangle twisted paths
Leading us to straightness.
Lord, creator of us all,
Raise the broken rubble
Mold from us mountains
Abiding in beauty.
Amen.”
Year after year I have watched a pattern of behavior emerge among my local community of Latter-day Saints. It is to invite the most convenient Native American to offer either the opening or closing prayer for our Sacrament Meetings on or around both the 4th and the 24th of July.
In an attempt to make everyone feel included, ward leaders fail to understand the complex emotions that this simple request creates among those of us still suffering from the effects of colonization.
Such efforts at inclusion are not the kindness they are thought to be, but rather, are opportunities for the dominant culture to receive a confirmation that all the deprivations of the past are now long forgotten and forgiven. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Many Indigenous members of the Church are not treated in the same way as their White counterparts. We live on the same ground, but don’t have the privilege to experience the same freedoms.
I have been in situations of being denied access to medical care based solely on my racial identification. It is legal in America to require a Native American to present a pedigree chart to a receptionist when seeking to see a physician. It is legal in America to turn away a sick person from a public health clinic if they self-identify as Native American. I have experienced these things.
My skin, hair and eyes are brown. After 9-11, the documentation for flying became much more stringent and I worried that my passport would be flagged because it says my race is White. I decided to call the Records office for the state where I was born and was informed that a Tribal Chief needed to be in attendance at my birth and testify, on paper, that I was Native American. Because my mother was primarily of European descent, I can be denied access to basic services because my father wasn’t.
Recently I attended a gathering of Latter-day Saints where many in there proudly self-identified as descendants of Pocahontas. What they don’t realize is that the same Virginia government official who gave the descendants of White colonial landowners the right to recognize themselves as Indians, required that all actual Indigenous babies have their birth records erased. History calls this a “Paper Genocide.” It means the literal erasing of a people’s history from public record. My people’s history.
When I attend my local Ward, I am seen as a Native American, an Indian, a Lamanite, a descendent of the Book of Mormon peoples, not a descendant of Book of Mormon peoples, a blessing, a curse, but hardly ever as just me.
When someone asks that I give the prayer on these Fourths of July, they probably think I will be grateful, but I’m not. I can’t be honest as I approach the pulpit. I want to pray to have the same kind of freedoms that others in the congregation experience. I want to pray for freedom from prejudice. I want to pray for freedom of movement. I want to pray to be me. But what others want is the freedom to not feel uncomfortable.
Because I don’t have freedom, I can’t give others the freedom from conscience they seek.
Cynthia W. Connell is an award-winning writer of creative non-fiction and poetry. Her writing often reflects her experience of being a multicultural member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She lives in Springville, Utah.
15 Responses
Beautifully and powerfully written examination of the facade of inclusion surrounding how so many of us celebrate the United States and Church and family history. “I want to pray to have the same kind of freedoms that others in the congregation experience. I want to pray for freedom from prejudice. I want to pray for freedom of movement. I want to pray to be me. But what others want is the freedom to not feel uncomfortable.” That’s going to stick with me for a while.
In order to become a unified people, we need to acknowledge that every one of us has radically different experiences and facing those experiences together is what gives us the compassion necessary to become one.
Say No to offering the prayer, but request to read this poem. It is a beautiful expose’ of a very real legacy suffered by the ones whose lands were stolen by the Mormon pioneers. Genocide and assimilation followed, but is NEVER acknowledged.
Cynthia, thank you for sharing this with us. Your poem is such an important reflection on what a Native American Mormon feels on these days (and when asked to pray on these days!) that celebrate the colonization of their lands and the slaughter/displacement of their people. I love your prayer — a prayer for the pillaged land, a prayer for the constricted and oppressed Native Americans navigating life today, a prayer for the blind eyes that can’t see, a prayer for sanctification and healing. I love the last image of rubble being molded into mountains.
I also deeply appreciate the narrative part that further describes your experience and gives additional context. “Because I don’t have freedom, I can’t give others the freedom from conscience they seek.” Such a powerful line.
“Many Indigenous members of the Church are not treated in the same way as their White counterparts. We live on the same ground, but don’t have the privilege to experience the same freedoms.” Thank you for sharing your poetry and these experiences.
Thank you for sharing your voice and experience through these heart-aching words. I have found that it is my privilege to forget about the generational suffering of Native Americans that I cannot see. Unfortunately, it takes courageous writers and thinkers like you to expose this suffering and remind me. You write the uncomfortable truth. Thank you. The “paper genocide” shook me to my core.
Thank you for being sensitive to the necessity of having courage. This piece did give me feelings of worry. People sometimes ask me to speak to groups then before I can even open my mouth they say I am there to create contention. Truth isn’t contention. Truth is truth, even if it requires us to wrestle with our souls. Prejudice, comes in many forms because it really means pre-judging an individual before they even get a chance to present themselves.
Cynthia, this poem and post touched me, educated me, and are beautiful. I appreciate you articulating the intentions of the leaders and their blindness to how such invitations and assumptions come off to native members. I didn’t know about these forms of discrimination happening with medical services, this is nuts.
You thoughts remind me of what happened when a white friend of mine who does research working with indigenous communities recently visited his home town. While visiting a historic site where one of the worst massacres of native people happened on US soil, he came to realize his parents still buy into old ideas that white settlers had a divine right to steal the land and inflict violence. He realized he and they interpret the Book of Mormon and what has happened over the past few hundred years very differently. He realized all this must be a big part of why he hasn’t felt seen or appreciated by them in his career path.
Many of us white Mormons have family members who are still caught up in these destructive stories that put up walls of racism and often make it impossible for them to appreciate native perspectives, needs, rights, and cultures. These old thoughtless and self-justifying narratives restrain our spirituality and our love from growing. They keep us feeling safe, comfy, and entitled. White Mormons need to have a lot more thoughtful conversations and study about native peoples and the history.
Thank you for this, Cynthia. I didn’t know how stringent the requirements for basic access to healthcare can be for Native Americans or how readily they could be denied.
I fall into the unfortunate category of being a visible minority, but not a paper minority. In other words, I lack documentation, but can’t hide my appearance. It is not a unique situation, but one that offers no legal protections.
My father arrived at the beaches of Normandy, France as a Native American, yet when he returned to the shores of the United States, he was no longer a Native American. Each government bureau has a different way of determining who gets certain privileges. When my parents married, my father was legally allowed to be Native American, but if he went down to the southern United States, his marriage was illegal. As of today, these are very complex issues that travel down from generation to generation.
Thank you for sharing your experience. I grow in profound ways when others share their life perspective; it is sacred to me when people share their stories.
The practice in your ward of asking a Native American to give the prayer around July holidays is odd to me. It doesn’t make sense why a ward leader would do that.
Your words went right to my heart. They will stay with me.
The more I learn about colonialism and our church history with indigenous peoples – and you taught me some things I did not know – the more I understand how loudly it must be shouted, the deprivations of the past must not be forgotten or forgiven. The final two stanzas of your poem are a powerful call forward.
Thank you for sharing some of yourself here.
I’m a fan of your writing. This is extremely powerful.
This is devastating, Cynthia. Thank you for pulling back the curtain on your experience. I had no idea about the health care barriers. Your writing is beautiful.