There is a vast maze one has to go through in order to reach the truth. Even then, once exited and adorned by the light one may realize they are subject to hallucinations.
Hallucinations that cloud your judgment, and are reinforced by your peers and passersby.
Lies become truths, truths become rumors, rumors become ancient wills that are marred for the sake of patriarchy.
Nothing exists anymore, nothing is real. To the mind, once it has been conditioned anything outside of its man-made barrier is a lie. A fairytale preconceived that the eyes process but the brain does not.
The phenomenon known as “cognitive dissonance”.
Unless there is a clear snap, a clear complete breakaway from these falsehoods we believe to be self-evident, humanity as a race is lost. Or whatever that means.
More and more, I question the authenticity of a human soul, and often wonder how many hybrids and humanoid molds are mixed into our 3D perceived reality. Maybe that is the gist of 5D reality, to finally see without universal barriers in place.
But I digress, that nature of spiritual warfare was not my intended topic of the day.
A few weeks ago during the peak of summer, I went to a town festival.
It happens every year; there are high school kids playing and showcasing their skills in the gazebo as a makeshift bandshell. Local eateries are hocking their food, eager for potential new customers to visit their stall. The fire department closes off a very long strip of the town’s main street, the truck closer to the eastern exit. It’s crew eating ices from the shop next door.
A family event.
Little kids running rampant and lots of dogs on leashes you try not to step on. There are even semi-local craft artists selling everything from original handmade clay wares to reimagined bargain bin Walmart trinkets (hoping nobody would notice and you know what – they rarely do. They are not an intelligent bunch who attend these street fairs, but I digress).
After passing the mechanical bull and watching a little boy try to goad his mother into a ride, I came across a particular booth.
A man with olive skin, two ponytails, an earring and a flute playing along with pre-recorded tracks.
A Textbook Indian.
Let me explain…
Since the early 19th century, there has been a concerted and calculated effort to cover up the true image of the ‘Native American’, the indigenous true Americans, or the Aborigines.
What was once a darker-skinned, stout, black-haired of differing varieties race became pale, nearly ‘white’ adjacent with light-colored eyes, stringy, thin hair and a persistent defiance that “although my skin is pale, I still have an Indian’s spirit”.
Yeah – do you?
This used to bother me when I was younger, until I found out one facet of the truth.
Until I learned about the Five Civilized Tribes requirements for enrollment, who is currently running these tribes – five dollar Indians/pretendians. The false mongoloid and European ‘white’ admixture and their likeness used to create the textbook Indians you see today.
Had they not adorned themselves with proud regalia of tribal residents of the past, they would be mistaken for the average ‘white’ Joe. The average pale ‘Mexican’, or a pale ‘Latino’. The average Mongolian, or Asian visitor to this land.
It was a form of conditioning, to see those images in school textbooks and those features presented as the end-all. Not to mention, the emphasis of plains Indians and a few of those tribe’s migration patterns.
It reinforces the idea that all origine, aboriginal residents of Turtle Island were dumb migratory beings who never put down roots. Or had civilization, or an agricultural society. And simply just disappeared when these so-called European explorer archetypes came around.
Like if you believe the 5th grade textbooks, you would think it was a bunch of pale, half-naked people wandering around a barren land eating nothing but meat and sleeping in cold tents. Excuse me – tipis.
Which was simply not the case.
The lost city of Cahokia comes to mind. A civilization at one point in our world’s history “bigger than London and Rome combined”. Another place comes to mind as well, but I plan on doing an article on it so I won’t mention it for now.
The Textbook Indian was selling trinkets. Some charms were available at a Walmart, others like the flute he was playing were for display.
How do I know this?
Almost every summer when I was a kid, I went to visit my grandma in New Mexico. She had moved there after my grandpa died, and half the family followed her down as well.
I can vividly remember visiting Old Towne each summer. Getting ice cream cones from the parlor that always dripped on my great aunt. Trying to afford the brick-like slabs of fudge with my own money because my mom didn’t want me eating all of that chocolate at once. The bear on the love seat bench outside the shop that for some reason I remember always being chained down.
There were men, with tanned skin and greased ponytails down their back and marvelous handmade turquoise jewelry playing these large hand flutes in the plaza. Microphones surrounded them and the bands always attracted crowds.
I wanted to be like them and one year brought a toy hand flute from a shop in Old Towne. The same flute the Textbook Indian was playing at the street fair.
I enjoyed buying trinkets and dream catchers and stones during my stay. The basket shop was always my favorite store. We stocked up on plastic baggies overfilled with our hand-picked incense preferences. I loved the fresh rain scent and melon. Incensio de Santa Fe blocks with added teepees and house burners were always cheap, and we stocked up for the year until our next return.
I now buy the block incenses of the same brand on Amazon.
I picked up rubbing stones, worry dolls, jumping beans – all little “intertribal” trinkets that didn’t mean a thing in the grand scheme of things. They weren’t sacred objects, just trinkets. This was understood by those who entered the store and purchased them.
Yes, that Mexican blanket was sustainably made by someone of the culture and community – but it doesn’t mean its sacred or rare in some way.
It’s just a Mexican blanket.
Popping back into the distant present, the Native American scammer had amassed quite a crowd. With his sterling silver feather-shaped earring swaying along with the red rubber band that tied his ponytails, he entertained the crowd of predominantly white women with dogs on their leashes.
They reminded me of those people who visit Chinatown for the first time.
They get lost, wander down a back alley and find an off-brand shop. They look around and find some old coins being sold for $15.00 and are convinced the old Asian person in the shop has no clue what they are selling – and buy a ton.
They hurry out of the alley [afraid the owner would stop them and renege on the deal] and go home to google their purchase, thinking they hit it big.
I’m sure the owner went home that night laughing while counting their stacks of money.
My whole point being that it simply is not real or authentic and the level of public discontent is nigh.
It is important people begin to learn about what their real, true – authentic – culture is – instead of having biased and incorrect textbooks cloud their judgment and abilities for discernment later in life.
I know it’s hard, but it is possible. I hope one day we all have a level of understanding where incidents as I just described above at a street fair do not happen, and that we can laugh Textbook Indians back into the caves and teepees they crawled out from.
Can you think of any experiences when you knew better but the public didn’t, and it infuriated you?
Stories From the New World
⊙ Remember, this world is a shadow of the real one.