I don't know if Woody Allen did it. I'd like to think the four-eyed filmmaker didn't sexually assault the girl, Dylan, but only he knows the truth, and she does, too – and maybe also the fly that was on the wall that fateful day in 1992.
This week I had a personal experience that was simultaneously painful and shocking, involving betrayal and a peculiar form of racism that exists in Indian country.
I'm in no mood to write today.
He limped into town in the middle of the night, beaten and bitter. He’s an asshole, really, and a good person.
As the holidays near, many Americans start planning how and where they will travel to meet up with family all around the U.S. It is a foreign concept to me.
As a researcher, I talk to other Native people about shared social issues. Sometimes we discuss the history and impact of federal Indian law, tribal politics, or the “real Indian” meme.
You have 24 hours, 1,440 minutes, or 86,400 seconds in a day—what do you do with your time? Do you find yourself spending it on the wrong priorities and activities? Time is precious. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. We can never get it back, but we can invest our time for the future.
I grew up in the white world. Anyone not white was a minority. In school we learned that Christopher Columbus was a hero who discovered America. Indians fought cowboys in the Old West, and Custer was tragically killed by a huge group of “bad savages."
If you spread it thin enough, a 40-ounce jar of peanut butter can last a long time. Ramen noodles can feed a whole nation for the cost of a box of Sailor Boy crackers.
It was summertime in the Chuska Mountains on the Navajo rez and everyone was living up in their sheep camps. There were some boys who had put in a full day of work and were heading back down to the valley below. It was 1968.
Hoskie woke up and could hear nothing and so he sat up. It was early, before light, still dark outside. He walked slowly to not make a lot of noise and could see that his wife was still sleeping and he decided to let her sleep.
When I heard of George Zimmerman’s acquittal, my thoughts went not to my 10-year-old son, but to my dad, when he was 18. I avoided coverage of the trial because I knew the unrepentant Zimmerman defense would blame his victim, Trayvon Martin, for his own death.
On a commuter jet now—US Airways flight 2128—New York City to Boston.
One spring a few years ago, the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) set up a wild horse roundup in Eastern Utah. I was doing some title search work and found myself one morning riding out with the wranglers who would be catching and rounding up the horses for the BLM adoption program.