Side Dish: Oklahoma City Nat'l Memorial & Museum 4/30/13

On April 19, 1995, Timothy McVeigh, shocking to the American psyche in that he violated the expected norm by being white and non-Muslim, parked his Ryder truck bomb in front of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, walked away, and heartlessly watched as 168 men, women, and children were senselessly murdered in the worst act of domestic terrorism until 9/11. Citing revenge for Waco, creeping government power, or any number of idiotic right-wing excuses that passed for explanation at the time, McVeigh was swiftly caught, tried, and executed in 2001. And while his insignificance as a human being has long passed from the earth, his act - still a fresh wound for so many - continues to resonate in Oklahoma City. It's tempting to say the bombing hasn't come to define the city, but there's no escaping its centrality to the area. Sure, the arrival of the NBA's Thunder and revival of Bricktown have done much to prove a genuine resilience, but above all, this is the prairie metropolis where violence came calling in an unprecedented fashion. Fortunately, in the spirit of both historical accuracy and emotional heft, the Memorial and Museum will stand in the place of bloodshed, minimizing nothing, but ensuring that when all is said and done, the victims retain a center stage in our national memory.

So why a side dish and not a full NPS review? True, the NPS participates in the site's continuing relevance, but while rangers man the memorial component, the museum remains in private hands (Oklahoma City National Memorial Foundation). And while instinct tends to favor the Park Service's backing, this is one site where the experience is utterly seamless. In fact, the cooperation makes sense, given the federal worker/civilian nature of those who died. It was an attack on the government, yes, but all of Oklahoma City suffered, and why not a partnership going forward? So yes, it's an "affiliated" site, per the official record, and not counted as a full member of the family. Regardless, it just happens to be the gold standard for all memorials, and stands toe to toe with any NPS site in the country. And though natural beauty is studiously avoided, the power the site generates can never be denied. From the 168 memorial chairs, stunning in their simplicity, to the Gates of Time that chronicle a city just before and after the attack (bookending a Reflecting Pool that was once NW Fifth Street), designers Hans and Torrey Butzer have emphasized clean, unadorned consideration. The site asks that you bring your own understanding of the event, pushing little save the idea that at bottom, where a building once stood, only memory remains. It's a graveyard, crime scene, and confessional all at once; a spot where we come to interrogate our own capacity for incivility.

And while the Memorial itself is flawlessly realized and beautifully understated, it is the Museum that truly resonates. If all one asks is to understand - a crucial element for those not alive at the time of the bombing - then OKC has performed brilliantly, providing a learning center so exhaustive and exhausting that it's impossible to imagine what could be improved. The exhibit begins on the 3rd level of the Museum (housed in the former Journal Record Building), establishing a brief background on terrorism. It's not meant to be the final word on the subject, but it's a necessary foundation for what's to come. In addition, visitors can inspect numerous panels and displays about the history of the Murrah Building, if only to see how vulnerable it was to just this sort of attack. But it's the next room where the sadness begins, where we sit in the darkness listening to the official recording of an Oklahoma Water Resources Board meeting that started at 9am just across the street from the Murrah Building. As it plays - and knowing it only lasts two excruciating minutes - we wait in dread for the hammer to fall. As it does, and the revolting noise that represents the loss of so many innocent lives ends tedium with tragedy, the faces of all 168 victims appear before us. It's indescribably powerful, and just the thing we need before heading into the rest of the site. We're shocked, disoriented, and a little numb, and it's only just begun.

The doors open, appropriately enough, on chapters labeled "Confusion" and "Chaos." The images and sounds of the first few minutes surround us, and above all, we are immersed in utter crisis. Was this a gas leak? A deliberate attack? News reports pull us in one direction, while blasted debris and the overall human toll pull us in another. We see the smoke, fire, and blood of that morning, and are quickly thrust into the stories of those lucky enough to make it out alive. Video documents, display cases, and touch-screen computers all compete for our attention, and it's impossible to sort through it all in a single visit. Which is as it should be. A disaster - any disaster, but certainly one caused by human hands - is never a simple story from A to Z. There are starts and finishes, detours and defeats, and the Museum's opening barrage never lets up or allows us to detach. This is the very stench of death before us, and the sheer magnitude of it all leaves of reeling, as if begging for air.

The next "chapters" involve World Reaction (more media footage and breaking news items), Rescue and Recovery, and Watching and Waiting. For anyone who experienced the event as it happened, there will be a sense of the familiar, from the retrieval of victims to the grim faces of rescue teams, but it's further part of the Museum's journey to leave no stone unturned. This is not the future's dry objectivity, but an event as it unfolds, allowing visitors to live the crisis as they did so many years ago. As it continues, the evidence starts to filter in, and we see a larger case take hold - that of a criminal conspiracy. The 2nd level fleshes out the case - arrests, evidence, and investigation - but first, there's the Gallery of Honor, where the families of the dead have chosen photographs and mementos to stand evermore as reminders of the human cost. More interactive computers provide nuance and fullness, though it's the presence of so many toys and stuffed animals (19 children were killed) that hits so hard. Pause and consider the dead, yes, but also weigh the inescapable fact: McVeigh, having visited the building before during the planning stage, knew he'd be parking his bomb right next to a daycare center. Hopefully, the sadness will then yield to anger and depression, as we must live with the knowledge that such men walk among us, completely devoid of conscience or empathy.

The 2nd level ends at "Hope," though it's all but impossible to feel any whatsoever after the overall experience. This is mankind at its worst and most destructive, and all I could feel at visit's end was a sense of waste. An angry man, bereft of joy and a future, murdered 168 strangers out of the demented belief that someone had to pay for, well, something. The frustrated loser, the loner without attachment, inflicted pain in order to escape his own. It's the story of untold savagery throughout our history, and too often we yield to its desires. The most telling detail, at least for me, remained the report that as survivors were being pulled from the rubble that afternoon, major thunderstorms blew through the area, bringing a torrent of further pain onto an already devastated community. Salt on a wound. Insult to injury. And that's what I'm left with, an indifferent universe carrying on despite our all-too-human woes, usually self-inflicted. No god to comfort us, no order to make sense of our plight. Just a hard rain to kick us while we're down. It's the only reasonable way to leave the OKC Memorial & Museum, after all. And kudos to all involved for understanding that. There are the dead, what they've left us, and above all, their permanent absence from our lives.

Border Wars: Fort Scott Nat'l Historic Site 4/29/13

There's always a certain level of sadness whenever one clears a state of its NPS passport stamps. For some, like South Dakota or Arizona, it means having no compelling reason to go back, unless of course the Cales can figure out how to have fun without feeding our unhinged obsession. But with hundreds of sites left to visit, it's hard to defend retracing our steps when so many new lands beckon our weary bodies. When it comes to Kansas, however, there are few regrets. Sure, we've come to understand that the eastern region of the state is infinitely more appealing than the western half, but not even Topeka or Manhattan are enough to foster genuine fondness. The Sunflower State, it pains us to admit, is the kind if place one drives through to get somewhere else, and while it might again feel our footsteps, we don't have to actually stop. It's over, baby, and we can at last put its mediocrity to bed. Predictably, the whole thing meets its expected end at a fort, the sort of place that has the capacity to educate and entertain, but has its work cut out for it once a person has already seen a good dozen of them. Not that all forts are built the same, mind you, but on the plains, one is as good (or bad) as any other. Men stayed, men marched, and horses shat. About the only difference remains whether the soldiers killed Indians or protected supplies. Often they did both.

Fort Scott National Historic Site, conveniently located in the quaint border town of Fort Scott, KS, was established in 1842 as "one of a line of forts from Minnesota to Louisiana that helped to enforce the promise of a permanent Indian frontier." Long story short, the U.S. government needed outposts west of the Mississippi to ensure that Ma and Pa Kettle could reasonably expect to live, scalps intact. Named for General Winfield Scott (who had not yet run for president), the fort was designed by Captain Thomas Swords to serve as a "crack post of the frontier," which was his way of saying that eastern values were expected to reign, even in the lonely west. As such, an emphasis was placed on architecture and quality, as both were often neglected on the "impermanent" prairie. And while most of the buildings on display are reconstructions, historical photos demonstrate a sound fidelity to the original design. Few forts were luxurious, of course, but for the time, this might not have been a bad place to bed down for the night.

After getting the stamp at the visitor center (which was the fort's hospital), one walks next door to the true centerpiece of the site, the Infantry Barracks. Originally built in 1844, it later served as the Western Hotel once the site was closed and its contents auctioned to the public in 1855. But lest one think the hotel was some 19th century Holiday Inn, the building was itself a line in the sand, a way to distinguish itself as a pro-slavery haven in a town increasingly on the side of savagery. With free-staters roaming the countryside around the town of Fort Scott, the hotel witnessed numerous clashes, including the 1858 attack by abolitionist James Montgomery, who tried to burn the hotel to the ground. While Fort Scott was hardly the focus of the border battles involving ruffians and the like, it did serve to enhance the site's historical importance for later generations. In that sense, it's a lasting symbol of the pre-war period, proving that frontier violence was often more than bank robbers and notorious outlaws. Kansas bled, and often for the most insidious of causes.

The current building now houses a reasonably insightful museum, as well as one of the better films we've encountered. Through reenactments and sharp narration, the film deals head-on with the slavery crisis of the fort's later years, emphasizing difficult issues in their proper context. Too many forts simply want to recreate "the life" (more hardtack than hard truth), but Fort Scott NHS understands the obligation to actual history. As the walk continues, one encounters the Dragoon Stables (later serving as a Civil War storehouse), Dragoon Barracks, Post Headquarters, and Officers' Quarters (later the Fort Scott Hotel). These buildings served their expected purpose from 1842-1853, though the Dragoon Barracks became a land office and courtroom during the Bleeding Kansas years. It's an easy, relaxed journey, especially given our perfect weather day.

Behind the buildings is a restored Tallgrass Prairie loop trail, which remained unexplored by us due to last year's bitter experience with the actual Tallgrass Prairie NPS site. We still grind our teeth over the lazy ass rangers who denied us a bus tour. From there, one can see a Quartermaster Storehouse, Bake House, and Powder Magazine. Sure, most of the site is less the original source of history than a "feeder" for other, greater events and conflicts (infantry and dragoons left Fort Scott to fight in the war with Mexico), but not all worthy designations need have felt the sting of actual battle. There's a strong sense of place at Fort Scott, and despite being set in the center of a living town, it does a reasonable job of blocking out modern intrusions. As history's "witness," the site - through the usual combination of local pride, boosterism, and federal dollars - became part of the NPS family in 1978. And while it isn't necessarily worth a long drive all on its own, it's a vital part of any reflection on the region's often controversial past.

FINAL RATING

6/10

Mr. Peanut: George Washington Carver Nat'l Monument 4/29/13

When I was growing up, what I knew about George Washington Carver began and ended with Saturday Night Live. The information, such as it was, came via Eddie Murphy and the "Black History Minute," which was hosted by his Shabazz K. Morton character, an exaggerated "angry black man" with sunglasses and faux African trappings to match. Beginning his mini-lecture with the aside that Mr. Carver, while conducting research at the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama, came up with "hundreds of industrial uses for the peanut," Morton soon turned sullen and angry, blasting the white man - a pair predictably named Edward "Skippy" Williamson and Frederick "Jif" Armstrong - for stealing Carver's peanut butter recipes. While whitey was making the expected millions from the theft, Shabazz notes, "Dr. Carver died penniless and insane, still trying to play a phonograph record with a peanut." And that was it. I never thought of Carver again, forever associating him with peanuts and little else. I knew he was a well-respected scientist at a time when segregation and discrimination were at their peak, but beyond the peanut image, little remained to define the man or the myth.

Swing forward thirty years and not only have I come to pay my respects at the George Washington Carver National Monument, I've driven a great distance to do so. Tucked away in the southwestern corner of Missouri near the tornado-ravaged town of Joplin, the Carver site is truly a relic from another time, greeting adults and school children alike with images and words that likely mean little at this late date. Carver, once revered and idolized as a man ahead of his time, is now largely forgotten, and few today could muster the energy to defend a National Monument in his honor. In July 1943, mere months after his death, Congress designated the spot including his Missouri birthplace, the first NPS unit to honor an African American scientist, educator, and humanitarian. No one could argue Carver's credentials as a thinker, but as the site tells us, it was also very desirable for the country to memorialize a man dedicated to peace and progress at a time of global war. Then and now, Carver was a blissful contrast to the hate and bloodshed dominating the globe. Humble and respectful, decent and true, Carver believed a day without learning was a day wasted, a much-needed lesson for today's largely bankrupt and illiterate youth.

That said, Carver was, at bottom, a religious man. No, seriously. A deeply religious man. Perhaps the most religious man we've ever encountered. I mean, this guy really, really, really loves God. And it's everywhere, from posted scripture to the site's film, which, while educational, is akin to eating your spinach from a church pew. Carver, according to the film, was a man of strong values, a deep commitment to hard work, and, lest we forget, the power of the Almighty. If he did it, it was to honor God. In fact, as the unigrid tells us, "Carver was motivated by his love for all creation...For him, every life was a window on God and a mouthpiece through which the Great Creator spoke." As such, a man is to help others, pray, help some more, and round things out with more prayer. As atheists, my wife and I were horrified at every turn, but we also understood that to fail to mention his devotion would have been false to the Carver legacy. It's like having an Eisenhower museum without mentioning World War II. And hey, we may find the idea of a creator speaking to some wee ex-slave from the Show Me State a bit creepy and presumptuous, but we're here to assess the presentation, not judge the man for failing to be an unfeeling heathen like ourselves. Perhaps we're just a little stunned that anyone made of flesh and blood could be so compassionate and ego-free. Still, I'll bet a quarter even sweet little GW railed from time to time, regretting every last minute that damned peanut first crossed his path.

The monument's visitor center is a triumph of education and fun, establishing context and a reasonable justification for the man's celebration. We learn of Carver's birth, troubled youth (his mother was kidnapped and never found), and frail health. We are also given an insight into his early inspirations in the surrounding woods, where George came to love flowers and assorted creatures. Quickly, Carver earned the nickname "The Plant Doctor," and eventually left the area for good in 1875. It seems odd, then, to have as the monument site a place where he spent, compartively speaking, very little time (and he's buried in Alabama, not here), but the man he became is based so much on these formative years, even if he spoke little of the pain and adversity he faced as a child of slavery. Carver's journey beyond Missouri included college life in Iowa, where he earned a Master's Degree in Agriculture in 1896. From there, after an invite from Booker T. Washington himself, he was off to Tuskegee, where he firmly established his legacy as an inventor and scientific pioneer. Among other things, he revolutionized farming methods, fashioned unique therapies, and created dyes that impacted numerous fields. He was a true man for all seasons at a time when few black men even dared apply for higher education.

After reading the VC's panels and interactive exhibits (and seeing George's violin and bed), it's important to check out the laboratory and classroom, both of which appeal directly to inquisitive young people - at least the few not lost to cell phones and mental inertia. For once, kids can touch, poke, and investigate, and no one cares that you make a mess. All told, Carver would be happy at the result. Most curious, though, is the exhibit featuring snippets from a Carver lecture given late in his life. Putting on the headphones, I was soon shocked to my core by the voice I heard. To say Carver sounded like a woman is to minimize things by a great degree, and I still can't believe someone wasn't putting me on. Sure, Carver was slight and grandfatherly, even as a middle-age man, but who knew he was grandmotherly as well? Peppered throughout the rooms are more quotes, great images, and even Carver's artwork. It's a thorough presentation, and given the subject, they should be applauded for getting it right.

From the VC, head to the Carver Trail, which is a well-paved, fairly easy mile-long stroll through some peaceful, genuinely beautiful woodlands. You encounter the birthplace site, a Boy Carver statue, the Williams Pond, and a reconstructed 1881 Moses Carver house. Fortunately for us, the weather was perfect, with a cool breeze to temper the heat. It was a perfect way to spend the afternoon, and it's easy to see why Carver was so at home here. Not that we'd live here among the bugs and snakes, mind you. After passing by the house, there's a final stretch towards the family cemetery, which features the graves of Moses and Susan Carver. It might strike you as odd that you are being asked to oberve silence at the feet of those who owned Carver's mother, but that's another debate altogether. Slavery's injustices and inhumanities are present at the monument - how could they not be, given the area is so near to Bleeding Kansas - but they are not the central tale, largely because of what George later achieved. He'd be the first to avoid any hint of victimhood, and in so many ways, the Carver NM should be a must-see destination for conservatives and right-wing Christians alike. Not surprisingly, the infamous Duggar brood - all 35 of them, or however many there are now - centered a recent show on a family visit. Jim Bob, dolt that he is, ignored all of the scientific endeavor of course, all but having an orgasm in the face of so much God talk.

So while we often felt like whores in church during our visit, and weren't immune from mocking the man's peanut oil massages as "cures" for polio, we both thoroughly enjoyed the Carver site from top to bottom. Sure, the film is badly in need of an update (it's at least 35-40 years old) and things err on the side of sainthood now and again, but one can't say we didn't learn something about this most unique American man. Even if he did sound like a eunuch.

FINAL RATING

7/10

The Sweet Smell of Sulfur: Chickasaw Nat'l Recreation Area 5/1/13

It all sounds so inviting on its face....waders and fishermen, shaded streams and swimming holes, wildlife calling you home for that much-needed escape. A relaxing ride aboard a mighty sailboat, or even a long walk through dense, endless forest. None of that appeals to us, needless to say, but in theory, such things could provide an afternoon of fun. And while one might associate cookouts, beer, and the roar of engines with weekends, summer, or any number of holidays, they should never be anywhere near a National Park. Indeed, there's a certain reverence whenever we see that arrowhead insignia; the assumption that one is not only on sacred ground, but that the standard for acceptance is so high, the NPS faithful are willing to ruffle a few feathers to keep out the rabble. And so we have the National Recreation Area - the admission that while one is technically inside a protected realm, it's okay to scream, wander with drunken abandon, and not really take anything seriously. No reflection and introspection required, just whooping and hollering in the face of dams, man-made lakes, and the sort of silliness usually found at the local level. And if this is the last one of these damn things we have to visit, so much the better. Maybe someone with authority will kick them back to the states at last and the leave the NPS to the worthy and the worthwhile.

Curiously, Chickasaw National Recreation Area, located an hour or so south of Oklahoma City, was once a mighty National Park, declared in 1906 in honor of some now unknown Senator who never even visited the damn place. It was also part of some deal with the Chickasaw and Choctaw nations, who wanted the land - and all of their mineral springs - protected from development and exploitation. Lucky us. And while the New Deal-era Civilian Conservation Corps built pavilions, roads, trails, and waterfalls in the decades following designation, the Park was eventually merged with the Arbuckle Recreation Area in 1976, creating what we see today. Which isn't much. But we had to come, and come we did. On a gray, cool day when the nearby casino would have been a far better bet. You see, Chickasaw just isn't worth it - not the drive, not the effort, and certainly not the review. Hell, I might not even finish. NRAs just piss us off to no end, and in all honesty, we wouldn't set foot within 100 miles of this place were it not for the passport stamp, magnet, and opportunity to poke fun at its limitations. I guess it's attractive in some twisted way, but mineral springs I've seen, and it sure seems beneath one of the government's most respected agencies to protect the smell of rotten eggs and the occasional picnic table.

After exiting the interstate and driving through the sad, broken down town of Sulphur, one enters the park with fear and loathing at the prospect of little reward. Pulling up to the Travertine Nature Center just after opening, we were greeted with a locked door and lights out. Of course. Fortunately, a ranger was just getting into his car at that time. Walking briskly to confront him about the outrage of denying us a stamp, I was met with a man either completely mute, or someone moonlighting as a mime. He shrugged and mugged and embarrased himself, but dammit all, he found someone to open the doors. Needless to say, the female ranger had been on the phone, and you know how them Sooner women love to gossip. Stamp secured, we watched the brief introductory film, which said little and educated even less. Still, we pretty much came for the shoddy taxidermy, and there's plenty of that in spades. The nature center also has a few turtles and snakes for the kiddies, but I wasn't leaving without a magnet. To no one's surprise, this all but took an act of Congress to accomplish, as the two layabout rangers in the back office had no idea how to work the cash register. What they were doing back there is beyond me, but it sure as hell wasn't anything resembling work. Such is life at a National Recreation Area.

Leaving with what we came for, we knew we had to drive around a bit to legitimately claim we had visited the site, even if nothing beckoned. The Platt Historic District had some charm, but the site's claim to fame, the waterfalls, weren't falling. Hell, they weren't even dripping. So yeah, all we had to look at were dry-as-a-bone creek beds and some wild growth. All we were left with, then, were the springs - Pavilion, Hillside, Black Sulphur, Antelope, and Buffalo - but any of their former glory was left to one's imagination. The area once hosted the wealthy and the damned, all seeking the healing waters of Oklahoma (!), but now it just stinks to high heaven, and any closer view requires stepping over animal dung and pounds of unsightly moss. I get that people ancient and otherwise thought this water cured disease, but surely common sense would tell you that if that same substance has a similar odor to your Grandpa Charlie's recliner, it's unlikely to accomplish anything restorative. So we walked, stared, rolled our eyes, and drove away. Maybe the lake would salvage the trip.

Before confronting the mighty Lake of the Arbuckles, did we mention the Bison Viewpoint with no actual bison? Not even the beasts of the wild had the energy to feign excitement. It's fitting, as the lake itself is, well, just a lake. And lakes we've seen. A lot of 'em. All over, in fact, without the added pretense. A few boats were about, but the day was so dark and depressing that all we could hope for was some dude on a Sea-Doo crashing into the pier. Hell, we didn't even catch sight of any of the area's "wonders", whether roadrunner, wild turkey, bobcat, or hawk. We saw a dozen or so armadillos, but they were all dead and decidedly roadside. Oh well. At least Chickasaw has a history, and even a story to tell, unlike that similar NRA atrocity in upper Texas, to this day the most worthless patch of earth the NPS has seen fit to protect. No one with sense or love would ever defend Chickasaw, but at least it isn't Lake Meredith. Yes, I'm damning this place with the faintest of faint praise, but it's all I can do to stay in the fight.

 

FINAL RATING

2/10

Side Dish: Taos Pueblo 4/7/13

If your life course has taken a turn into despair and indignity and you feel overwhelmed by the slings and arrows of misfortune, visit an Indian reservation. If you're down and out, depressed and exhausted, or damned and doomed, visit an Indian reservation. And if you wonder what life might be like if you reached your wit's - and financial - end, visit an Indian reservation. Such patches of woe exist all over the United States, but they reach their peak in the American Southwest, and after dipping your toe in this pool, you're never going to feel so good about your own lot again. I use 'peak' ironically, of course, because few soaring heights are reached, sought, or even desired in this part of the country. Indian land is where dreams go to die, sadness goes to holiday, and, above all, where all that is right and good and true stop off for a messy suicide and even hastier burial. And that brings us to Taos Pueblo, located (naturally) at the edge of hippie haven Taos, a community that never met a 60s cause it didn't continue to champion, like piss in the proverbial wind. It's a beautiful spot, needless to say; that is, until one drives through the densely packed "downtown", past the state's lone smoke-free casino (I lost $20 in 35 seconds, so fuck that place), and into the standard-issue oblivion.

What is the Taos Pueblo? Only the oldest continuously inhabited community in the United States (and a World Heritage Site as of 1992), a fact that seems less romantic the more one realizes this means complete cultural paralysis. Living as their ancestors did over 1,000 years ago, the people of the Taos Pueblo forego running water and electricity, preferring simplicity, tradition, and the occasional Dodge Ram to keep things honest. Yes, there are big hogs of automotive blight at every turn, which do a wee bit of damage to the whole "authenticity" thing. Shitting in a kiva pleases the gods of wind and sun, apparently, but muffler noise and spinning tires are somehow acceptable alternatives to the kinder, simpler way. I mean, when a man needs smokes at 3am, you don't expect him to walk, do you? Hypocrisy and selective enforcement aside, the presence of modernity interferes with the tourist trade, and we the people have a right to bitch when we're paying $10 a head to walk the grounds, along with an outrageous $6 per camera fee. You see, it's a "privilege" to snap photos of a dusty, poverty-stricken community. But those are their terms. From where I sit, they simply don't want to admit that they're sneaking in a guilt tax for the whitebreads who visit this place after getting bored with antique shopping.

The two main structures of the Pueblo are called Hlaauma and Hlaukkwima, which mean North and South House, but could just as easily mean "The Pueblo Strip Mall." While no casino or neon lights block out the sun, there are dozens of commercial pleas hung about; ancient, handwritten shingles plying the usual trades of jewelry, cold sodas, and assorted weaving. We saw few actual entrepreneurs about, though the smoke flying from the chimneys indicated that food was also available. There's also the San Geronimo Church (built in 1850), which itself is a National Historic Landmark. I'm always confused by the presence of Catholic imagery anywhere near Native land, as few did less for these people as a whole, but according to the brochure, 75% of the Taos Pueblo share in some Catholic practices. Here's hoping it begins and ends with the fondness for lighting candles.

Throughout the Pueblo, one will see hornos (outdoor adobe ovens), drying racks, the Red Willow Creek (the Pueblo's sole source of drinking water), and dozens of Canis Strayus, the ever-present stray dogs of the reservation. More than the adobe homes, wooden ladders, and ceremonial kivas, wandering pups define contemporary Indian life, and it never ceases to depress the hell out of us. It helps that the dogs are, without fail, sweet and kind and desperately seeking attention, but you're also bound to see dirty coats, hunger-induced rib cages, and the occasional mange. Of all the reservations we've visited, the dogs of the Taos Pueblo are the most "successful" by comparison, if only because they're tucked away in a community, rather than walking and dying roadside, as with any number of Navajo strongholds in Arizona. Leashes, bowls for food and water, and vet visits are apparently the white man's way, so short of stealing these sweethearts away in the night, what is left to be done? Hell, I'd pay $50 for a camera fee if I knew it might secure some shots now and again for the four-legged unfortunates.

So where does that leave the Taos Pueblo in our historical memory? On the one hand, Native peoples were in fact hunted down, marginalized, and exterminated by the American government, all for the betterment of the white ruling classes, but at the same time, where does tradition begin and utter stasis end? As Native languages and customs die out, or submit to widespread unemployment and alcoholism, is there an obligation to help these people make the transition from the past to a much better future? Can and should any outsider fight to help those who insist on the ways of the ancestors, when these very actions ensure economic instability for all? As it stands, the Taos Pueblo will join forces with the cash nexus to ensure its survival, but at what cost? As one walks about, one can't help think that despite the grandeur of history on display, we are treating living and breathing American citizens as museum pieces; musty relics to be displayed for our privileged amusement. Imagine a similar tourism in Detroit, Oakland, or the hills of West Virginia. Would there not be howls of racism, class exploitation, or at the very least, mean-spiritedness bordering on condescension? In the end, Taos Pueblo helps some remember that people lived here long before our pasty asses came aboard, but they also serve to remind us that if you're not moving forward, you're being left behind. It's a sad legacy, even with all the reminders of an unshakable pride.