The
first item in this month’s MAIL BAG comes from Cousin Glo, whom I can always
count on for things of substance.
To
paraphrase her email, she and a friend have been working on the family
lines of a fellow named Leonard Peltier, who descends from the Pelletier
dit Antaya line. Now some of you may be frowning slightly and saying,
“Who…?” And some of may be thinking, “Not THE Leonard Peltier…” To the
later, I can say, “Yes, THAT Leonard Peltier.” And as I told Glo, I had
wondered if Leonard was family ever since I stumbled across the first
Peltier in the Monster Data Base. More on Leonard – shortly (but can I do
things in any fashion BUT shortly?)
Leonard is the son of Leo Peltier and Alvina Showers.
Leo
is the son of Alexander Peltier and Mary Dubois
All
Glo and her friend are looking for the Leo’s parents and grandparents, and
maybe even his great grandparents.
The
other is from a fellow named Joni Pepin (Hey, Joni, welcome to the
newsletter. Cousins, meet Joni), who said on 26 Feb 2004 when he signed the
website’s guestbook:
I
found your site while doing some family research on my father's side of
the family. He died when I was young, and I never even met his parents. So
I have no idea where I fall in the grand scheme of 'pepins’, but I sure
would like to find out. Thanks for the site
So
I meandered on over to his website (http://www.pepinonline.com)
and saw that Joni is the grandson of Arthur Leon Pepin and Elizabeth Strogen,
through their son WiIliam Francis (1915-1983). The name Arthur Leon Pepin
rang a bell, though for the life of me I can’t remember why, so I asked Joni
if he’d like me to post it in the newsletter. He replied:
Hi
Lisa,
It’s great to hear
from you. To answer your questions:
-
Yes, please mention him. I’d
love to find out anything I can
-
Yes, I would like to receive
the newsletter.
-
Sure, you can add my link.
I’d love to hear from other relatives who may be able to fill out my
ancestry J (plus, I like meeting new people)
Thanks again, and I
look forward to hearing from you again soon
-Joni Pepin
There
are few of us who were alive in the early 70s who don’t at least remember
hearing about the little altercation on the Pine Ridge Reservation in 1975,
the one that started at Wounded Knee February 27, 1973 and ended on June 26,
1975 at the Jumping Bull ranch. I was 17 years old that year.
My
father could and did make some right pithy comments about a great many
things in the 70s; a few well chosen words that cut to the heart of a matter
with the quick precision of a M.A.S.H. surgeon. He also had a twisted sense
of humour. And false teeth.
In the
early 60s, before my youngest brother was born, our little family of four
was seated around the dining table for the evening meal. As my brother Don
was placing a fork laden with mashed potatoes in his mouth, Daddy stuck out
his upper plate, waggled it at Don and then sucked it back in with a loud
slurping noise. Don quite obligingly demonstrated that it was indeed
possible to spray mashed potatoes through his nose.
Now, I
know Daddy hadn’t meant any harm. He got grabbed by a funny thought and
shared it.
It was
sense of humour he shared with his brother. We had gone on a fishing trip
up to Neah Bay, we being Daddy, me, and Don, and Daddy’s brother’s family;
Mom has stayed home because my youngest brother wasn’t quite a year old and
we didn’t know yet if he was as portable as Don and I were.
One
morning, Don and Cousin Joe come running into our camp so excited neither
could complete a full sentence; they had just discovered some jellyfish left
on the beach after high tide. Uncle Bud says, "Y'know, you could make
yourselves some jelly sandwiches." and Daddy nodded, and before you knew it,
their two sons were bolting for the beach, bread and butter knives in hand.
Daddy and Uncle Bud collapsed in laughter that was cut short by Aunt Marge
coming in and asking, "Where were they off to in such a hurry?"
Somehow
they explained (I can no longer remember the specifics), and Aunt Marge
roared after them. She hauled her son and nephew back, and the first words
I could make out were, ". . . and certainly not with my good knives." She
stood them in front of their fathers and said, "Okay, Funny Boys, now
explain to them why they really can't make jelly sandwiches.”
Once
the explaining was done, they were two very disappointed little boys, but
their disappointment didn't last long; Daddy and Uncle Bud took them out to
a place out in the Straits of Juan de Fuca called The Hole, and had a good
day fishing.
Again,
neither had meant any harm. They got grabbed by a funny thought and shared
it.
Up the
street from us was a family of 10 and when the youngest child was still
quite young, their father died. Leukemia.
Daddy
was a mechanic, and as often happens with mechanics, he worked on cars in
the driveway. This attracted the sons of the household up the street.
Daddy encouraged this, tucking them up under his wing. Soon the sons were
bringing their buddies and girlfriends, and their younger sister. Friday
and Saturday nights found our house full to the rafters with teenagers and
the sound of Roy Orbison, the Everly Brothers, Johnny Cash, and the
Beatles. Daddy was a country western fan but “the kids” liked Orbison, the
Everlies, and the Beatles, so he listened to them, too.
One
Friday or Saturday night, with the usual full house of dancing and laughing
people, a fellow showed up who looked . . . well, after the quiet question
had gone round the house and it was determined that no one knew this
fellow, he was invited to leave. Politely at first, then when this fellow,
with his badly ripped jeans and un-zipped fly and vague smell of
having-been-drunk-for-a-while, erupted in a cascade of words that one would
normally hear in The Barracks or Locker Room. Being the early 60s, neither
Daddy nor the Boys would stand for that sort of language in front of their
girlfriends, sister, Mom, or us kids. In that quiet no-nonsense way that
Daddy had, he gave the fellow the option of leaving on his own or he would
be put out – without benefit of the front door being opened first. The
fellow left, threatening dire consequences. With a smile I’d never seen
before and never saw again, Daddy said he’d be waiting. The fellow never
returned. Daddy had a quite a few choice things to say about that fellow.
All these years later, the surviving kids from Up the Street are still in
touch with Mom.
Late on
a summer night a few years later, I remember hearing a sound like a single
fire cracker. In less time than it takes to type it, Daddy had Mom and us
kids on the floor in the center of the house with all the inside light off,
and himself stretched out on the floor under the front window, his .45 auto
in hand, with a short stack of full clips. The next morning the only damage
was a small hole in a neighbour’s front window; the verdict was that “some
dumb-ass kids” had been “joy riding”.
There
was only one thing that I never heard Daddy comment about: Leonard Peltier.
The
most reaction I ever saw was him stand up like he was made of wood, his face
a blank mask, and he’d leave the room. No comment. Not even a deep and
throaty, “Bahhhhhhhhhhh.” Early on, yes, but as things escalated, he didn’t
watch the news so much.
My
impression at the time was that the whole thing was really unfair to those
folks on the Pine Ridge.
Since
then, Mom has said that one of Daddy’s biggest concerns was that his
children not suffer as he and his brother and sister had suffered growing
up. He swore her to secrecy about his ancestry, an ancestry of which I am
only now beginning realize the full depths. Through Daddy’s father, we have
blood ties to the Coast Salish, the Kwantlen, and quite probably either/and
Cree, Ojibwe, or Iroquois; through Daddy’s mother we have only the family
stories that point towards both the southeastern US as well as what was once
called the Dakota Territories. Stories of tentative ties to the Tsalagi
(Cherokee), Muskogee (Creek) war chiefs and the Treaty of Okmulgee -- of my
own great great grandmother being buried “on the same reservation as
Sitting Bull” in 1888. The signs point to my father and his siblings being
raised in a household that was all too aware of the liabilities of claiming
anything but a nice safe vanilla European ancestry.
What
Leonard and AIM were trying to do was alleviate the need for this. Leonard
was, at the time, one of the high level AIM leaders. I remember the sick
cold feeling in my stomach, listening to the news broadcast about what had
happened at the Jumping Bull Ranch, still new to the knowledge that I had
“some” Native American ancestry and fearful that the violence would spread.
Some
years later, it was brought to my attention that Leonard was *still* in
prison. I remarked that I did not believe that Leonard was guilty or that
he had pulled the trigger. The person I was speaking with said, “Nope, he
isn’t. Wasn’t his gun.” The ballistics report can be found at
http://www.freepeltier.org/ballistics.htm#top. Up shot is that it wasn’t
his gun.
But
still Leonard’s in prison, where he’s been since 1975. He’s 58 years old,
with diabetes, high blood pressure, and a heart condition. Near as I can
tell the only reason he’s there is to be An Example.
For the
whole scoop on Leonard, what happened then, what’s happened since, what
ISN’T happening, and who Leonard is as a human being, please visit,
http://www.freepeltier.org/index.htm This site includes an address
where you can send a donation towards his legal help, and an email and snail
address to Leonard himself. Being as he is a descendant of the Peltier dit
Antaya line, he’s probably family.
