Linguistic note:  In the French dialect spoken on the border of the U.S. and Canada, "en-cachet" means illegitimate or hidden and "cachet" means a gift.  In English, "cachet" means a special prestige or quality.  All three elements currently form part of the northeastern Native identity.

A second-year college student from my Native American community spoke to me a few weeks ago about some problems she was having with her suite-mate, a young Anglo-American man from New York City.  This young man believes all Native people are mystical and follow a variety of American Indian prophets from Black Elk to contemporary New Agers.  He refuses to acknowledge my friend's very deeply held Protestant Christianity, or that her family has been Christian since the Jesuit missions in the 1640's.  For this young, non-Native man, Native ethnicity and Christianity are mutually exclusive.  He claims he would like to be Native in order to experience mysticism, but not, as my friend put it, "our kind of Indian."

When I was in graduate school, my Anglo apartment mates refused to believe me when I pointed out that Natives could be destructive clear-cutters.  Even when I brought in photographs of the clear-cut common timber holdings on my grandmother's reserve in Canada, clear-cuts that were authorized by the Tribal Council who sold the logs to Hydro-Quebec, my apartment mates refused to believe that this could have been done by Indians.  Without knowing the circumstances, my apartment mates asserted the timber contract must have been forced upon the Tribal Council by unscrupulous white outsiders.

We all have fantasies about The Other (Said 1978).  These fantasies are projections of our own demons and desires.  There have long been deeply held ideas in mainstream American life about the nature and culture of the indigenous Americans, those mysterious people who inhabit the fringes of American imagination (Berkhofer 1978, Churchill 1992, Deloria 1988).  In popular American movies and literature, American Indians are often seen as other-worldly, in some fundamental sense un-real and mythic, essentially in tune with the spiritual universe, genetically pre-programmed to have visions and paranormal experiences.  In other words, not normal humans with normal social problems, but rather "noble savages."  Everyone wants to be part of this fantasy.  Even Natives find it seductive.  But it is not reality.

There are over 50 distinct indigenous cultures in New England and eastern Canada alone; there are thousands across the continent.  Our ancestors had ways of life as different as mega-cities of 100,000 people and foraging bands of under 20.  And our post-invasion histories are distinct one from another because of the variety of invading cultures we have had to cope with since 1450 -- the Portuguese, French, English, Spanish, Russian, Dutch, Canadian, American, and Mexican.  There is no mono-cultural, mono-historical, mono-religious, or philosophical "American Indian."  But the Anglo myth that the collective 1.5 million of us are the "noble savage" pervades our personal and community lives as we are forced to participate in an ongoing act of cultural oppression that actualizes a stereotype.  By enacting the mythic role of the noble savage and accepting the gift of its prestige, our true identities are denied, distorted, forcibly hidden, and rendered illegitimate.

Berkhofer, Robert. (1978). The White Man's Indian.  New  York: Alfred A.  Knopf.
Churchhill, Ward. (1992). Fantasies of the Master Race.  Monroe, ME:   Common Courage
        Press.
DeLoria, Vine Jr. (1988).  Custer Died for Your Sins: An Indian Manifesto.   Norman, OK:
        University of Oklahoma Press.
Said, Edward. (1978). Orientalism.  New York: Pantheon.

Seventeen-year-old Robert Earle rolled over and turned off the alarm.  He was tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, but he still had homework to do and he wanted to finish it before his parents got up.  If they found out he hadn't finished it the night before, they'd raise the roof.
 He yawned as he put on his bathrobe and yawned again as he shuffled sleepily down the stairs.  He just couldn't wake up.  Maybe he'd shower before breakfast today, instead of after.  He felt better after the shower.  He dried off, put his bathrobe back on, and went to the kitchen.  Looking at the clock, he realized his grandmother would be up soon.  He'd surprise her and make her favorite breakfast.

Much to the disgust of some of his family, Grandma had taught Robbie to cook, clean, knit, crochet, sew, and a host of other tasks traditionally considered to be the work or hobbies of women.  She had wished all her life for a daughter and ended up with nine sons.  In her widowhood, she had moved in with her oldest son, Wilmer, who had seven daughters.  None of them were that interested in learning from her, having learned the basics from their own mother and considered it drudgery.

 Then Robbie was born.  As he grew, he had become very attached to Grandma, who was the only one in the house with unlimited time to spend with him.  He was by her side whenever she cooked, cleaned, or did any other task around the house.  He always wanted to help her, so she taught him how.  Then he had wanted to learn knitting, crocheting, sewing, and the other pastimes with which she amused herself.  By the time he was ten, his skills matched hers in everything but sewing.   In between he also chopped wood sharpened his father's tools, helped plant and maintain a large vegetable garden, mowed the lawn, and helped his father with various repairs around the house.  He also tended his grandmother during her increasingly frequent sick spells.  She said he had the gentlest hands of anyone she ever knew, man or woman.  If Robbie was around, she would let no one else touch her.  Most people said that Robbie was so handy with everything that he'd make some girl a splendid catch.  Robbie's sister Anna, when she saw him knitting or crocheting, would remark acidly that he would make a perfect wife.

One Sunday afternoon Robbie and Grandma were alone in the house.  Robbie looked out and saw his sister Anna and her husband Peter walking down the path to the house.  Robbie quickly hid his crocheting and met them at the door.  They didn't stay long, since Wilmer and Charlotte wouldn't be back until late that evening.  When they left, Robbie and Grandma settled back to their handwork.

 "Robbie, why did you hide your work from them?"
 "Because that bitch Anna always makes comments about me making someone a perfect wife, and I'm sick of it."
 He saw his grandmother wince at the expletive and added, "Sorry Grandma."
 "Well, it's not my favorite word, but it certainly fits, though I grieve to say it of my own granddaughter.  Anna's just jealous, Robbie.  She thinks she should be the center of creation, and it bothers her witless when people show her she's not."
 "But I never tried to show her that."
 "Oh, I know.  That just makes the lesson all the more effective."
 "Well.  I'm sick of being called a girl.  I'm sick of people calling me a sissy, a faggot, and all the other names.  I'm SICK of it.  I get enough of this crap at school without taking it from my own family."  His voice broke; he turned away to hide his tears.  They were the ultimate feminine weakness.
 "Robbie, there's nothing wrong with having the interests and skills you have.  Yes, I know, a lot of what you like is considered women's work, and men who like this work are considered queer.  But calling that stuff women's work is arbitrary.  I wish I knew who decided all this stuff.  I'd wring his flippin' neck.  How do you think it was for me, a married woman with ten men in the house, none of whom would be caught dead helping around the house?  Believe me, I wouldn't have thought less of any man who wanted to help me.  Not just because I needed the help, either.  I always thought this men's work/women's work nonsense was a crock of prune pickles.  We should just let people do what they're best at, women's work or not."
 Having delivered herself of this speech, she drew a long breath and knitted in silence.  Then she spoke again.
 "You just go ahead and be who the Good Lord meant you to be.  It won't make you any less of a man.  The things that people are most apt to make fun of  you for are the things that I most love about you.  Who else in this family so ungrudgingly spends time with me and nurses me through my sick spells?  You're the one person that spends time with me just because you enjoy it.  You do that for everyone you meet.  You may not know it now, but a lot of people love you, Robert Francis, and love you just the way you are.  So don't go hiding your crocheting under a basket just because of that narrow-minded sister of yours."
 That was two years ago, and Robbie followed his grandmother's advice.  He found that having accepted his interests as valid, others did, too.  And those who didn't (like Anna and her ilk), no longer made cutting remarks.  It's no fun pestering someone who won't be bothered.
 Grandma's oatmeal was done and the apples sliced.  He arranged the apples atop the oatmeal, and sprinkled them with brown sugar and cinnamon.  He set the bowl on the table and placed next to it a pitcher of cream.  He looked at the clock. Surely it was time for Grandma to be up now.  He decided to call her before her cereal was ruined.  He knocked at her door.  There was no answer.  He opened the door and called softly.  Getting no response he entered the room and pulled up the shade.
 "Grandma?"
 He went to the bed and touched her hand.  It was ice cold.
 "Grandma?"  He shook her a little.  No response.
 He knew, then.  He ran up the stairs and yelled for his parents.  They came down and entered Grandma's room, and called to her. She did not answer.  In the ensuing commotion, Grandma's untouched cereal grew cold.
 Friends and neighbors thronged the house for the wake.  Food and flowers were everywhere, filling the air with their fragrance.  In the living room the simple wood coffin stood open, and all who came filed past it.
 Robbie suddenly couldn't stand the oppressive atmosphere any more.  He ran out of the house and into the woods behind it.  Once there he stopped and regained his breath.  He was grateful for the fresh air, untainted with too much food and too many flowers.
 A few minutes later he heard footsteps approaching.  He turned and saw Sean McMahon.  Oh, shit, he thought, just what I need.   He and Sean had been friends all their lives.  Lately, though, he had noticed something different about his feelings for Sean.  He wouldn't name it, but he new the term friendship no longer covered it.  He was afraid that in his present state he would throw his arms around Sean and never let him go.  And never regain his friend.
 Sean had some flowers in his hand. What were they for, Robbie wondered.
 "Hi, Rob."
 "Hello, Sean."
 "I brought some flowers.  You can put them by the coffin if you want, but I wanted you to have them first."
 Astonished, Robbie looked into Sean's eyes.  There was something that Robbie had never seen there before.  Could it be?
 "You just be who the Good Lord meant you to be,"  he remembered Grandma saying to him.  Well, Grandma, I'm not sure you had this in mind, but it sure sounds good now.
 "Rob?"
 "I'm glad you came, Sean."  Robbie opened his arms.  Sean stepped into them and embraced Robbie, flowers and all.
 "I've wanted to do this for a long time," Robbie whispered.
 "Me, too."
 "You coming to the funeral tomorrow?"
 "Yeah."
 "Don't leave until we've had a chance to talk."
 "Trust me, I won't."
 Back in the house, Robbie put the flowers in water.  He slipped unnoticed to his room and set them by his bed.  Downstairs, he went to the living room to greet some more visitors.  The fragrance of the flowers assaulted him, but he no longer found it unpleasant.  He would never associate it with death.  For him it would always mean new life.

Due to viral encephalitis at one week of age, my youngest daughter Theresa is mildly retarded.  Her school participates in a state-wide Special Olympics program.  This program is for children who have learning disabilities, physical, emotional, or mental.  Once a year the Special Olympic programs from all over the state have a tournament.

This year the tournament was held at the University of New Hampshire in Durham and included approximately 600 children.  This is a three-day event and the kids stay in the campus dormitories.  McDonalds provides most of the meals at Special Olympic events.  When the games are over and the award ceremonies are finished, the kids prepare for a dance on that final night.  This is their night to shine.

There was excitement in the air as though charged with electricity.  All these children who thought of themselves as ugly ducklings were suddenly transformed into the swans they had always wanted to be; it was as if the heavens opened up and God had smiled down upon them.  The night was theirs.

Gone were the differences, the wheelchairs, the limps, the tempers, the emotional problems, and the blindness.  All of a sudden they were normal kids, equal in their ability to have fun and be themselves.  It is this transformation that amazed me the most.  I have known "our" kids for most of their lives and I could not believe the transformation I saw that night.

The dance was a cultural event.  The wheelchairs spun to the music as though on air; the blind danced with sight for the first time; the tempers replaced with a kinder, gentler spirit; and the mentally challenged were suddenly all knowing.  The evening was filled with laughter, rejoicing, and the making of new friends.  But all good things must come to an end.  Soon it was 11:00 pm and the dance was winding down.  Now came the tears.  The tears flowed freely from the kids to the volunteers; tears at what we had witnessed that night; tears at leaving old and new friends, some of whom will never be seen again; and tears at the knowledge, even if unconscious, that tomorrow they would return home and once again be labeled the "misfits."

These kids have been picked on, called names, physically threatened, and knocked around their whole lives.  That night the feelings were charged with love, care, and concern.  Why the difference?  What could cause this amazing one-night miracle?  Did the children in becoming united with others like themselves become changed?

Those in Special Olympics, along with their coaches and support volunteers, are a culture unto themselves.  While disabled children are "misfits" in the larger, more dominant culture, the unity expressed in the Special Olympics reveals the full essence of this unique group of people.  The differences in beliefs, values, and goals of the disabled and their families are sometimes at odds with the dominant culture.  This is evident in the fear behind the dominant culture's intolerance.  There is fear not only of the differences but fear of being or becoming like "them."  Often the fear is not directed at individuals but reflects the belief in a kind of "cultural inferiority," where the fear and rejection applies to whole groups of people (Curran, 1996).  Who is to blame for this fear and for the mistreatment of our society's "misfits?"

Many of the disabled and their families recognize that it is improbable that the larger society will soon begin to appreciate the specific values and achievements of this culture.  Our society lacks the kinds of social structures that enable oppressed groups, including the disabled, to succeed.  The disabled have hopes and dreams and plans for the future.  It breaks a mother's heart to know that her child will always be considered less than "normal" and will not have the same advantages as others.

Curran, D. and C. Renzetti. (1996). Social Problems: Society in Crisis.   Boston: Allyn and
      Bacon.

In the United States, 18-year-olds have the privilege and responsibility of voting, serving on a jury, buying cigarettes, leaving home, gambling, enlisting or being drafted for military service, and being sent to an "adult" penitentiary.  Lawmakers feel that an 18-year-old is responsible enough to make legal contracts, buy weapons, and die for their country.  Why, then, has the drinking age remained at 21 for so long?  One reasonable answer seems to reside in the idea that the legal drinking age is a social norm that resists reasonable argument for change.

Those lawmakers who argue for change face an uphill battle.  Justice Catherine Morgan of Louisiana argues that "...18-year-olds are accorded the responsibilities and obligations of an adult under the law...but are treated as though they are still children when it comes to the purchase and public consumption of alcoholic beverages" (McGill, 3).  Yet there is a price to pay for unpopular opinions and reforms.  The recent LA Supreme Court's decision to lower the drinking age to 18 has resulted in a major public outcry and the threat of losing a massive amount of federal funding for state highways.

Perhaps we should look for insights from other cultures.  Many European societies treat alcohol as part of everyday life and do not punish children or adolescents for drinking.  Where such liberal drinking policies prevail, driving under the influence is less of a problem (Veek, 2).  In the U.S. alcohol is perceived as a forbidden fruit from which children and young adults must be protected (Veek, 1).  Europeans realize that this is an unrealistic norm, and people there are less likely to abuse alcohol.  Many Americans believe that lowering the drinking age will cause crime rates to soar, yet Europeans have shown that this belief is unjustified.  Germany, for example, allows people as young as 16 years old to drink; yet Germans do not suffer from a high crime rate (Legal Drinking Age, 1).

Just as it is a social norm for Americans to control fiercely alcohol consumption, it is a social norm for young people to seek and drink alcohol, despite the laws.  The fact is that many people under 21 obtain alcohol at parties and social gatherings or from older people who will buy the alcohol for them.  Young people who have never been exposed to alcohol may not understand the effects and consequences of drinking, and this can result in alcohol abuse.  This might account for some of the alcohol related problems on college campuses.

Many people believe that if the drinking age is lowered, that many more alcohol-related automobile accidents will occur.  This is a rational fear because of the wide-spread perception of young adults as irresponsible drinkers.  The president of Advocates for Highway and Auto Safety says, "The nation-wide uniform 21 drinking age laws save 1,000 lives...saving taxpayers two billion dollars every year" (Legal Drinking Age, 4).  The fact is that people age 15-20 have a higher crash risk than other drivers even when they have not been drinking (The Fact Is, 1).  This makes the fear of increased alcohol related traffic accidents unfounded and irrational.

Young people have repeatedly shown that they are responsible enough to assist in the election of presidents, in the changing of laws, and in the defense of our country.  Young people have also shown that they are going to drink whether or not it is legal.  Why not make it legal for 18- to 20-year-olds to drink and give them the chance to show that they can handle the responsibility that drinking alcohol demands.

"Drunk Driving Victims: Safety Advocates Outraged at Louisiana Court  Decisions Overturning
        Lifesaving 21 Drinking Age." (1996).  Online.  Internet.  March 1997. Available:
        http://../../graphics/bull1.gif.
Henslin, James M. 1997. Sociology: A Down to Earth Approach.  Boston,  MA: Allyn and
        Bacon.
"Legal Drinking Age Should Be Lowered to 16 in B.C." Online. Internet.  March 1997.
        Available: http://kafka.uvic.ca/-drinking.html.
McGill, Kevin. (1996). "Louisiana Court Lowers Drinking Age." Online.   Internet. March
        1997.  Available:  http//smartwine.com/bennerds.leisban.gif"border.
"The Drinking Game: Teens in America vs. Teens in Europe." Online.  Internet. March 1997.
        Available:  http://www.stolaf.edu/stolaf/depts/psych/alcohol/E10Frossman.txt.html.
"The Fact Is." Online. Internet. March 1997. Available:
        http://www.jointogether.org/JTO.Alcohol_Facts.html.

 I believe that a school uniform policy should be adopted for public schools nationwide.  Such a policy would serve several functions.  First it would prevent youth gang members from wearing their colors or insignias which, in turn, would help to reduce violence and theft in the schools.  In cities where a school uniform policy has been implemented, such as Long Beach, California and Seattle, Washington, there has been a documented decrease in school crime.  Second, since clothing is one way in which social class is identified and reinforced, a school uniform policy would reduce wealth related prejudices coming from staff and other students.  Third, such a policy could instill students with a greater sense of discipline and help them to resist peer pressure and to concentrate on schoolwork.  While I concede that a school uniform policy would restrict students' freedom of expression in some respects, I believe that the benefits would far outweigh the drawbacks.  Both the safety and education of our nation's children are at stake.