Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Minneapolis' American Indian Cultural Corridor I

Today, instead of writing about the Winter that's here or the Spring that's coming, let's do something very different. Last Summer I went into Minneapolis to take a number of photos of the American Indian Cultural Corridor on Franklin Avenue. Reading the stories today about Minnesota's current sulfate standard being "about right" and MPCA's forthcoming efforts to specify which waters are wild rice habitat, made me think that now might be a good time to share many of the pictures I took as part one of a photo essay. The next time I do anything like this, I'll be sure to include people in my pictures of places.

American Indian Cultural Corridor signage
American Indian Cultural Corridor signage  © harrington

All My Relations Gallery
All My Relations Gallery       © harrington

All My Relations Gallery signage
All My Relations Gallery signage   © harrington

on display at All My Relations Gallery
on display at All My Relations Gallery   © harrington

bicycle racks (hitching posts?)
bicycle racks (hitching posts?)       © harrington

Many Rivers East, affordable housing
Many Rivers East, affordable housing   © harrington

Many Rivers East, entrance
Many Rivers East, entrance      © harrington

street "furniture"
street "furniture"            © harrington
There's more to come later this week or sometime next. If your haven't been to this part of Minneapolis for awhile, you might find it worthwhile and interesting to check out after the snow melts. Meanwhile, I wonder how universal the role of a kitchen table is. Joy Harjo's description captures much of the kitchen tables of my childhood.

Perhaps the World Ends Here

By Joy Harjo 

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

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