When I was eight years old my mother and I took some of my fathers family with us to sunny California. We drove the entire way from Ohio to Northern Louisiana, and from there, California.

It was an awesome experience for a little girl from a town so small you could almost roll a stone from end to end, to steal a great phrase. The way down from Ohio to Louisiana brought such visions to me that I thought my little mind would overload and shut down.

On the way down, we drove into to Nashville. When my mother and I arrived it was nearly dawn and she awoke me in front of the Grand Ole Opry, with a bag full of warm donuts, hot chocolate, and a camera flashing blinding bulbs in my face. I grew up listenng to all kinds of music and country music was no exception, so I was thrilled. Even though I could done without the flash bulbs from Hell.

I saw my first streetwalker a little further into the city, and it did turn my head. There was nothing so commonly unique in my little corner of the world. I thought that she was perhaps beginning her day or ending her night.

She wore white pantyhose that made her very dark legs appear to be purple, with a neon lime green ultra mini skirt, with white knee high boots, and as if that wasn't "special" enough, she topped that ensemble off with a Gold shimmering halter.

Her hair was something best viewed from the safety of a two way mirror, because when I finally managed to work my eyes up to it, all I could say was, "Momma, look at that lady! Why does she have on purple stocking and a green skirt?"

This utterance was followed by the sincere laughter of a child. What I didn't realize then, was that this woman of ill repute was heading straight for us, while we stay waiting for the traffic light to change.

We were in peril and I didn't even know it. My response was indeed loud and ignorant, due to the fact that there weren't really any people of color in my little home town that weren't family members.

When we finally arrived in Feriday Louisiana, I got my first taste of the old south. This is a time and place where "colored" old men of seventy or eighty still address children with white skin, with cast down eyes, and the pronoun, "Sir."

We spent a week there before heading out to California. I saw the Mighty Mississippi, in all her glory. We drove over the famous bridge that Billy Joe McAlister jumped off of, and ate fast food until it came out of our ears.

After long, seemingly endless driving we discovered ourselves in Arizona, where I first saw any Native Americans. This was of great importance to me because I knew of my own Native American heritage, but never actually gazed at any not on a television screen. Those indians usually all had blue or green eyes and were named Jeff Chandler.

We spied a gas station across from a grocery store and pulled in for the works. Back then they actually pumped the gas for you, washed your windshield, checked all of your fluids and made sure your tires all had the correct air pressure. Service at it's best, served most often with a, "Thank You & a smile."

While my mother and aunt went to the grocery store for some literal living food, we youngsters stayed behind. That was fine with me, because a large group of Native American women with their children went into the wash room. I never said a word, but their authentic beauty transfixed me.

I had never seen a indian, and it truly awoke something in me even then, although it would be many years before I even got the smallest clue about what it was.

We'd driven past numerous reservations along the way, and all I could think was how desolate and barren they all looked. I realized then that the indians were only given this land, because none of the whites wanted it. This realization so impressed me, but what would happen next, would forever be burned into my heart like a brand.

Soon my mother and aunt returned with drinking water, and food we would actually desire to eat. When my mom saw the Native American women with their children, she offered some water and fresh fruit to them. A person can become easliy depleted in the hot, relentless Arizona sun, so they all glady accepted. One of the ladies offered a beautiful bracelet in return, but my mother refused to take it. She said that doing what we can to help each other this life is the best thing any of us could ever do. I was so very proud of Momma that day!

When the time arrived to pay our petrol bill, the servicemen at the station hissed this question and comment to my mother and I under his breath, "Did them filty injun's leave the place a mess?" "I Fu**In hate em, always bring their rug asses into my bathroom, they stink!"

He looked at us as if he expected us to validate his hateful outburst and opinion. I remained silent, but never took my eyes away from his, and my mother, being of Native American heritage herself in part, did not give him such an easy out.

She told me to get into the car which I did reluctantly, but I had my ears turned up as far as they could go. She replied, and chose her words carefully, "Why of course they did, and isn't that something? " "Imagine "those" people actually being brave enough to use that restroom!" I nearly wet myself laughing, because the look on the serviceman's face, said it all. It was on that day that I was able to identify what hate was and is. I understood that hate was a deep root and it poisoned all who came into contact with it, if entertained long enough.

Now, despite all the gruesome odds against them, my people have managed to take something utterly worthless and turn it into something that is sought after. They have survived in as hostile an environment that no one could ever imagine. Not only do they survive, they thrive, and are finally doing well.

The government, "Greedy powers that be", want to screw my kindred out of everything they have, once again, while they use them to usher in UN "Peace-Keeping" troops and set the spin doctors out of control, trying to sell the dogma to the masses.

I realize that my brothers and sisters in the Shoshone tribe, see no other way than going to the "devil" himself to strike a bargain, but I fear that there will be dire consequences from this little stage play they are being set up for.

Who do we write, call, email and generally drive nuts until we can reverse this action in country, without bringing in the UN? I believe that once they are here, they will have no intention of ever leaving, and they will see to it that we experience all manner of terrorism, just to make it all look on the square. They hope to frighten and vex us all so much that we will all gladly hand over our freedom in lue of the illusion of peace and safety. Nevermind about the right we have to keep and bare arms.

It has been Thirty-Three years, and I still see it in my minds eye, like it were yesterday. I have lived many places and met many people, but none have been as royally screwed as the Native American, except perhaps the Native population in Austrailia.

Native Americans are this country's version of a Jew, and someone has prepared some new ovens for them. I hope we, unlike most of the people of Hitler's day will stand up for what is the moral thing to do. If don't maybe next time it will be our turn.