Buffalohair: Visions From The Missions An Orphans Tale

Visions From The Missions, An Orphans Tale

Posted in America’s, Texas, US News. with tags aboriginal news, Bucket Lists, buddhists, burmese, child abuse, dark secrets, elitists and perverts, False G*Ds, foster care, Gaylord Hotel, indigenous news, Jinghpaw, Missions, native news, orphanages, Racism, refugees, Religions, Seniors in the news, travel on January 8, 2015 by Buffalohair

Recently I took my 88 year old mother, Romana, on a ‘Bucket List Journey’ after she recovered from kidney failure. Prior to her remarkable recovery she resigned herself to the fact she would never be able to travel ever again. The Scotsman (her husband) died while she was infirmed adding to her torment since they used to travel the world together. She wanted to see Texas one last time. So we packed our bags and headed to the Long Star State, Yee Haw.

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My mother and I visited friends and family through out Texas. Our hostess was the vivacious Madam Butterfly, my Burmese interpreter. We toured DFW and since it was Christmas we made our pilgrimage to the fabulous Gaylord Hotel & Resort, a Texas Tradition. This was her Bucket List Journey and I pulled all the stops. If you never experiences a Lone Star Christmas at the Gaylord, you are missing out on a fantastically entertaining time. Ms. Romana was all smiles while having the time of her life.
Of course we visited my friends within the political exile and refugee communities and was invited to a Christmas extravaganza at the Kachin Baptist Church by my Jinghpaw brother La Sang. You never go to a Jinghpaw gathering without eating some of their culinary fare and this was no exception. I was happily surprised to see my mum chowing down on all the traditional Kachin foods. Mom just loved her spicy ngapi and everything else she was served.
She was well received by my Jinghpaw brothers and sisters and was invited to participate in the Manau Dance at the end of the event. At first I was worried since she was still in recovery but off she went and danced along side the Jinghpaws like a boss. The ole gal blew me away since this ceremonial dance lasts as long as one of our gourd dances on the rez. For all intents and purposes the Manau Dance shared the same meaning as our round dance and my mom was honored to dance among the Jinghpaw.
We were also invited to a Buddhist Mon naming ceremony and my mom got a taste of Buddhist hospitality while she enjoyed this tradition. Dare I say the cuisine was traditional Mon and my mother loved every scrumptious bite. I was tempted to introduce her to the ‘King of Fruit’ the revered Durian but I did not want to push the envelope. I am a great fan of this wildly delicious fruit and every time I smell it, I can almost taste it and the velvety smooth pudding like interior that surrounds the Durian seeds, yum.
Our Bucket List Journey brought us to my dear friend Ashin Thila Nanda’s budding new Burmese Dhamma Center in Fort Worth. Again me mum was accepted with open and loving arms by my Bama friends. We ate and my mom got a chance to experience true ‘Loving Kindness’ these Buddhist had to share. It just got my heart as they hugged and welcomed her into their hallowed temple. My eyes teared up for some damn reason. Gawd, I hate that.
Knowing Ashin Thila Nanda’s struggle to survive insurmountable odds after the Saffron Revolution I was equally happy to see his holiness acquire and build his own temple to serve the Buddhist Burmese Community. It was really good to see an old friend once again and my mom and I were honored to accept his blessing. My mom was also smitten by the Buddhist community for they truly touched her heart.


We stopped in Austin to visit friends and had some excellent brisket, ribs and sausage at ‘Smokey Moe’s Bar B-Q’ in Round Rock and that was some of the best BBQ I had ever ate. But in Texas there are many excellent smoke houses with their own distinct and delicious flavors and secret sauces that just titillate the taste buds and olfactory . We visited their Parrish and visited the priests who prayed for my mom. The art work within this Parrish was nothing short of breath taking.


The next place of interest for Romana was San Antonio. I knew my mom and dad visited Missions all over the US and Mexico for years. So I made sure to add this to her agenda. I figured she visited them because she lived in a mission in her youth but it was much deeper than that, I soon discovered. What started out as a lighthearted and somewhat eclectic journey took an unexpected and eye opening turn.


Fact is, the San Antonio Mission Trail became a journey of deliverance and revelation for my mom came full circle with her past and confronted the demons that haunted her for 81 years of her life. Though she was a US citizen she was remanded to an mission orphanage deep in Mexico back in the 1930’s, during the U.S.A.’s rush for the American Race as opposed to Germany’s Master race. Mental Defectives were being ushered into asylums while select minorities were being whisked away, out of sight and out of mind and my mom was caught up in the hysteria as a nation began to purify the American Genome.


As we toured the Missions of San Antonio my mom began to tell me stories I never heard her mention in all the years I knew her. She began by explaining that all the relics, ovens and artifacts that were on display at the missions here in Texas were still in use up to the day her brothers broke her out of the mission in the early 1940’s. She said the mission was still segregating fair skinned kids from the brown Indios and how the nuns would treat the non-natives with care and tenderness while giving them adequate food, uniforms and medical attention.


On the other hand, she and other ‘savages’ were forced to wear cloths for weeks without bathing. Food was a luxury item since the Indios were not fed with any regularity and what they did eat was stale, rotten and sometimes covered with maggots. At least the maggots were fresh and chock full of protein. The Indios were severely beaten if they stepped out of line by mentioning of being hungry, thirsty or cold. My mom told me that her and the other kids were starving to death and that many kids perished during her tenure as an orphan at the mission.


In light of what we know today were the ‘pretty kids’ being raised for other much darker purposes other than photo ops and paraded around for donations? After all pedophilia was a fetish of the bored aristocrat, ancient philosophers and G*Ds as history denoted throughout the ages. Ancient pictures, plates and other artifacts decorate the finest museums in the world and considered priceless by art aficionados. They probably have a collection of ‘Snuff Flicks’ to complement their onerous sexual forte.


The works of Marque De Sade was nothing more than a snapshot of a nobleman’s hidden passions and decadent desires. Read a few chapters of Marque’s book, ‘120 Day’s of Sodom or the School of Libertinism’ and make your own opinion, just don’t drop the soap. You think Elitist Libertines are filthy perverts now, you should see how their ancestors were back in the day for their perversions of the flesh involving children were epic.


My mom described starvation to me in a casual yet poignant manner, “We were very hungry but eventually the hunger pains went away, we stopped crying and was not hungry anymore. Some kids died but for the ones that lived, we were finally fed broth”. Apparently this was a culling event designed to thin the herd of those pesky Indians and mental defectives. Eugenics has taken many forms over the ages and ironically it was in the name of G*D or what was perceived as G*D by some very stupid people.


She told me the story of a young nun from France who could not bare watching the kids suffer and die, to the chagrin of her superiors. She gave my mom a blanket and told her to keep it hidden from the other nuns. She smuggled scraps of food to my mom and other starving and sick kids. Eventually the kind sister was removed or was returned to France, for the crime of kindness I imagine.


The Indian kids were simply slaves who worked around the mission till they died or was lucky enough to run away. The ones who were re-captured were beaten, possibly to death for they were never seen again after their rigorous punishments. My mom remembered in chilling detail how the little Indian kids would cry in shear pain and agony as the nuns beat them senseless for violating G*D’s law. Obviously their G*D was not the true architect of the universe, just a gutter snipe with shiny toys, a taste for math and condoned beating children soft and bloody.


They were unconscious but my mom was sure some died on the spot. Nuns gleefully boasted that a dead Indian child’s spirit was destined for purgatory or hell itself since the child was not properly baptized and died a heathen. Many native children were driven mad from the terror they endured while in this orphanage. The ‘sisters’ would take non native kids on tours of the native quarters and use this as an example of what could happen if they were bad and pissed off G*D. How far beyond stupid was that?


“We will put you with the Indians if you’re bad”, they would say according to my mum. She remembered the smell of ‘sweet soap’ and the sight of crisp pressed uniforms the non native kids wore during their tour of the native hell-hole for they lived and played out of sight of the dirty Indios, where the grass was cool and cookies were served or so it was rumored.


Romana was placed in a room with the insane kids for months at a time for flagrant violations of the nuns codes. She remembered the smell of feces, vomit and urine that covered the walls and how everyone was naked or in tattered cloths. One crime my mom recalled was the crime of ‘asking’. I queried what the crime of asking was and she said it was forbidden for her and other brownies to ask for food, blankets cloths or water because they were not G*D’s children. Native kids were considered impure beings and an eyesore in the Creator’s eyes. They were also considered inhuman.


Mum used to cook on an oven like the ones on display in the missions we toured. If she was caught tasting anything she was cooking she was beaten then tossed in the room with the insane kids. I stood in astonishment as my mom opened up on exactly on how these people of the cloth would abuse the boys and girls. Kids simply disappeared never to be seen again and she knew they were not adopted for they were ‘trouble makers’ who dared to lash out. Besides, people wanted the white kids not dirty brown Indians anyway. Fortunately my mom was to chicken to speak out or I would not be here.


My uncles told of how the mission had underground caverns and tunnels that were dug by natives for the priests and nuns. They lead to dark rooms or cells as well as to other buildings within the mission/orphanage complex. The part that really got my attention was that these passage ways were said to be lined with the skeletons of children from infants to teenagers that were posed as sentinels or guards with tiny shields, wooden swords and spears. My mom only heard of the tunnels and caverns but her older brothers saw them when they were runaways from the orphanage and desperate to find cover within the surrounding compound. My uncles also said the tunnels smelled of death and decomposing flesh.


As we toured I asked why my mom and pop visited all these missions over the years since they were full of bad memories of barbarism, torture and death. She said it was so she could pray for all the tortured souls who were buried outside of the mission walls for their broken bodies were not pure and not allowed in cemeteries. The sound of kids crying in agony echoed in her ears and haunted her soul for 81 years. By visiting these missions she could offer a prayer and help them on their journey or at least let them know they were not forgotten. My mom knew all to well she could have easily been one of those lost souls buried like trash in unmarked mass graves. Romana was conditioned at the orphanage and feared for her life if she ever told her stories but in December of 2014 she was no longer fearful of retribution and death if she ever mentioned a word of what transpired more than half a century ago.


In essence she overcame her fears and could finally face her past and tell the whole story of her epic journey that began when she was 7 years old when both of her parents died. She told me she was haunted by these memories all her life but now she was liberated and free from fear. When we went to the missions she felt it was time for me to hear the whole story before she died. Now her focus of concern was for the dead Indians who refused to be slaves and were murdered for disobeying G*D by the priests and nuns. When you think about it, these missions were early ‘sweatshops’, only difference is sweatshops pay real wages of around a dollar a day. Oh boy, does this fabulous wage include a 401K and healthcare?


She said that little had changed since the days Indians were beaten for not accepting the European G*D in the early 1940’s when she was finally rescued by her brothers and taken back to America. The only difference was the method of euthanization that was perpetrated against the natives. But then again we don’t know what happened in the catacombs beneath the house of G*D. But skeletons nailed to tunnel walls hinted of darker days in the past, don’t you think? Maybe it was just leftovers from their annual Halloween Haunted House and the bones were made of latex. Yeah, that’s it, oh silly me the eternal skeptic.


Now I had a complete picture of my mom’s life and why she married a Scotsman for their childhoods were scared by child abuse of every kind by people of the cloth. In my step-dad’s case it was the Church of England who had dominion over boarding schools. Their disdain for the Scots was equally barbaric writhe with abuses of every kind imaginable. And it was in the name of G*D.


Ole Norman my step-dad also told me of the gruesome and perverted Saxon head masters who systematically abused little boys. His stories of how he was savagely beaten with a cat of nine tails for no reason other than being a Scot still burns in my memory.


I was placed in foster care when my mom contracted TB. I was segregated from other kids and got beaten like a red headed step child. I had my taste of abuse as well. But for those who never lived in an orphanage or foster care, you have no idea what it’s like and maybe you should shut your opinionated and miss-informed pie hole before someone plants a fist in it for running your clueless mouth. Just remember, people who’ve survived abuses of any kind also suffer ‘Post Traumatic Stress Disorder’ and in some cases, ‘Anger Management Issues’ as well.


This is not about BAD religions homeboy/homegirl, it’s about people who hide behind religions, social status and positions of trust to perpetrate crimes against children. You know who you are and soon everyone will know what you are. And if you’re to lame to understand that, then you deserve the dental surgery a survivor will give you, for free.


Nothing gets my ire more than bonehead experts who never saw a day of foster care but have meaningless opinions, quote scriptures and have no clue what they are talking about. They can cause more harm than good if the truth was know. An inept PTSD counselor who dared to ‘test’ my reactions almost lost his life and I’m not kidding. Survivors of abuse can spot them the moment they open their big mouths to flatulate like politicians hunting the vote. Gads, my PTSDs are flaring up now.


As the spirit world interfaces more and more with our plain of existence during this era of absolute change the secrets of the Contemporary Elitist Libertines will be reveled for their false G*D has no dominion over the spirit world. It was said in many visions, “The people will know the truth when they hear it” and the Pandora’s Box of Truth is now wide open boys and girls and the show has only just begun.


We should all know by now that the real architect of the universe never condoned the abuse of children or anyone else for that matter.


Those were the words of the False G*D and Celestial Douche Bag, Mork.

 

  Bada Bing, Bada Bang, Bada Boom, capice paisan?


Your Devil’s Advocate
Buffalohair