Ray Fischer wrote:

Aside from that little war where the US took
a large chunk of land from Mexico.

Well that land was taken from natives by the
Spanish, and incorporated into the Spanish
colony of Mexico.

Screw the P.C. *****!

The fantasy for "northern Mexico" is promoted
for one reason and one reason only:

In article <Y2oKg.756$MF1.347@newssvr25.news.prodigy.net>, Sanders
Kaufman at

JTEM wrote:

There's no way around it. If you can claim that Mexico
/really/ owns Texas, I can claim that Spain /really/
owns Mexico. If anything, my claim is the more valid of
the two.

The Indians had it right and the Xians had it wrong.
Nobody owns the land - the land owns us.

Just thought I'd add this, in case any of you hadn't read it...

---

How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? The idea is
strange to us.

If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water,
how can you buy them?

Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine
needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing
and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people.
The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of the red
man.

The white man's dead forget the country of their birth when they go to
walk among the stars. Our dead never forget this beautiful earth, for
it is the mother of the red man. We are part of the earth and it is
part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse,
the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices
in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and man --- all belong to
the same family.

So, when the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy
our land, he asks much of us. The Great Chief sends word he will
reserve us a place so that we can live comfortably to ourselves. He
will be our father and we will be his children.

So, we will consider your offer to buy our land. But it will not be
easy. For this land is sacred to us. This shining water that moves in
the streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our
ancestors. If we sell you the land, you must remember that it is
sacred, and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that
each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events
and memories in the life of my people. The water's murmur is the voice
of my father's father.

The rivers are our brothers, they quench our thirst. The rivers carry
our canoes, and feed our children. If we sell you our land, you must
remember, and teach your children, that the rivers are our brothers and
yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindness you would
give any brother.

We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of
land is the same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who comes in
the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not
his brother, but his enemy, and when he has conquered it, he moves on.
He leaves his father's grave behind, and he does not care. He kidnaps
the earth from his children, and he does not care. His father's grave,
and his children's birthright are forgotten. He treats his mother, the
earth, and his brother, the sky, as things to be bought, plundered,
sold like sheep or bright beads. His appetite will devour the earth and
leave behind only a desert.

I do not know. Our ways are different than your ways. The sight of your
cities pains the eyes of the red man. There is no quiet place in the
white man's cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in spring
or the rustle of the insect's wings. The clatter only seems to insult
the ears. And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry
of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around the pond at
night? I am a red man and do not understand. The Indian prefers the
soft sound of the wind darting over the face of a pond and the smell of
the wind itself, cleaned by a midday rain, or scented with pinon pine.

The air is precious to the red man for all things share the same
breath, the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath.
The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man
dying for many days he is numb to the stench. But if we sell you our
land, you must remember that the air is precious to us, that the air
shares its spirit with all the life it supports.

The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also receives his
last sigh. And if we sell you our land, you must keep it apart and
sacred as a place where even the white man can go to taste the wind
that is sweetened by the meadow's flowers.

So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we decide to accept,
I will make one condition - the white man must treat the beasts of this
land as his brothers.

I am a savage and do not understand any other way. I have seen a
thousand rotting buffaloes on the prairie, left by the white man who
shot them from a passing train. I am a savage and do not understand how
the smoking iron horse can be made more important than the buffalo that
we kill only to stay alive.

What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, man would
die from a great loneliness of the spirit. For whatever happens to the
beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected.

You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the
ashes of our grandfathers. So that they will respect the land, tell
your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our kin. Teach
your children that we have taught our children that the earth is our
mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of earth. If men
spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves.

This we know; the earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the
earth. This we know. All things are connected like the blood which
unites one family. All things are connected.

Even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as friend to
friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers
after all. We shall see. One thing we know which the white man may one
day discover; our God is the same God.

You may think now that you own Him as you wish to own our land; but you
cannot. He is the God of man, and His compassion is equal for the red
man and the white. The earth is precious to Him, and to harm the earth
is to heap contempt on its creator. The whites too shall pass; perhaps
sooner than all other tribes. Contaminate your bed and you will one
night suffocate in your own waste.

But in your perishing you will shine brightly fired by the strength of
the God who brought you to this land and for some special purpose gave
you dominion over this land and over the red man.

That destiny is a mystery to us, for we do not understand when the
buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses are tamed, the secret
corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men and the view of
the ripe hills blotted by talking wires.

Where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone.

The end of living and the beginning of survival.

- Chief Seattle, 1844

The above is one version (I just happen to like.) For the "Authentic
text" see