[More than half of the white women who voted in the presidential election cast their ballot for Donald J. Trump, according to exit poll data collected by The New York Times.]
Hey America, Well, it’s been fun. We’ve had a good run. But we’re done now. No hard feelings, it’s just not working out. It’s not you, it’s me, okay? Well, actually it is you, but whatevs. If it’s cool with you I’d like to drop by your place when you’re at work tomorrow so I can get my stuff.
After twenty years with the same employer I started a new job recently. WOW! After that long it nearly took me two weeks just to pack up all my personal items.
The television is a marvelous toy, but I’m not sure it teaches better than the old stories. My grandson was watching a man and a woman insulting each other on television. They claimed to be running for president of the United States by insulting each other.
Gustavo had come a long way from the jungles of Brazil where his Indian tribe lives. From a very young age, he was groomed by his grandfather to be a tribal medicine man and he knew the flora and fauna of the forest intimately.
Last weekend, I attended the 2016 Native American Journalists Association Conference in New Orleans. It promised to be a thrilling, new adventure for me: my first NAJA Conference and first time to The Big Easy.
I’m heading along the 1806 in North Dakota and thinking maybe when people pass through the checkpoint, er...I mean "information point" on their way south from Bismarck along the 1806 and just north of the Sacred Stone Camp by 25 miles, they should share some information with the North Dakota Nati
Some said he was too mean; others said he was just gruff. He was a big, rough, and a hard person. His name was Hashke—it means angry and mad in the Navajo way of speaking. His name fit him.
Sometimes I think about that place not far from Newcomb. The last night before we left for boarding school, summer had come and gone and it was the last day at home.
She was from a place not far from Crumbling House Ruins.
She stood there with long hair, eyes soft and brown.
I was up north of the rez in Denver taking care of some stuff I needed to get done when I ran into an acquaintance whose mother I knew from long ago. She had raised her son in the city. He had recently settled down with his own family off the rez.
There was a call. One of those you don’t like to hear. Ashie’s sister called him from Phoenix and said that their mother Nahgebah was in a bad way and that it looked like her time had come.
Burnham Junction was dry; there had been no water all summer. The sagebrush was a dull gray; the sun had baked the color of straw out of it.
I am Diné, an American Indian. Not the Indian princess of a Disney movie, not the enemy combatant in a Western film, not the romantic, stoic relic of an old Edward Curtis photograph.
The Pony Soldier Motel on Route 66 was just around the bend to East Flag—as in Flagstaff, Arizona, called Kinlani in Navajo. There are a lot of rooms in that place.