There’s a stigma that Indians where I’m from are broken and dirty. Maybe it’s the water. We boiled water most of my life on the rez because that’s how Mom said she got hepatitis.
Living cheap is hard enough, but it is harder still in small-town Utah when your Mormon welfare dries up completely.
Editor’s Note: The following was previously published in The Burrow Press Review.
I was raised to be angry at white women. I’m not blaming it on my mom, but she often said white people brought genocide and disease. “We didn’t even have rats,” she said. “They brought them on their boats!” Smallpox this, she said, colonization that.
On a dark country road in Indian Country, the lessons of childhood come back quickly when the police pull you over. As a nation debates police violence, we should know that Native people are the ethnicity most likely to be killed by law enforcement.
I used to be the rez chick, pushing a bundled baby down a gravel road with a stick to ward off dogs. I used to be the rez chick dropping off my baby at subsidized daycare to study for my GED.
There was another funeral on the rez last week. This time it was my cousin, Sonny Bobb. This is the fifth death this year, and it's only April. I'm tired of death, and there's no respite.
I engaged in a pitched, life-and-death, brutal, bloody battle with four racist young white men on a lonely dark rural road in Creek County, Oklahoma in 1971. I was a 22-year-old college student and a citizen of the Comanche Nation of Oklahoma.
What does it take to succeed in life when everyone, in your formative years, abandoned you? It takes determination, smarts and a bit of luck. My life began in January 1954 to a military father and an Inupiaq mother.
Back in 1998 when I was last spending a solid chunk of time at my mom’s in Molino, Florida, I drove 26 miles north to the Poarch Band of Creek Indians tribal offices near Atmore, Alabama to see if I could volunteer in some capacity while I was home.
Buying a car will always be a big deal to me.
New Year’s at ICTMN finds me at home, shuttling between the computer, the woodpile outside, the kitchen where I hope to sautee some mushrooms soon, and the enticing couch with its open invitation to me to enjoy a brief afternoon snooze.
Boozhoo, Aniin! Denay Makinitook!
Welcome, My Relatives, to the Centre, the heart of Turtle Island, the sacred place of Manito Api. Today we come forward to share a gift from the Original People.
“What are you writing?” the man at the bar asked me.
“A piece on Turkey’s president who recently said Muslims – not Columbus – discovered America.”
“Well …. did they?”
“Of course not!” I blurted. “And neither did the Jews.”
“So it was Columbus, then. …”