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finally, I got to look directly at my great-great-great-grandfather’s journal.
Having physical copies of ancestral texts not stolen is a luxury
Surely, in wanting to come to a white man’s church, this Indian gentleman thought it vital to attire himself after the same fashion he has to have seen white men going to church in. A failure to understand the hierarchy in these church walls,
Always assuming the native man does not understand
When the air cleared again, my swift-runner was gone. And that’s the last time I ever saw it.
“a… prairie runner, is that how you say it?” “Antelope,” he corrected,
The traditional names of animals is meant only for the story not for the white man
The savage mind is more rhetorically capable than I would have given it credit for.
I’ll never understand the mind of the Indian, who would give away that which he himself most direly needs.
gagged from the taste of these napikwan so thick in the air it stung.
Stinky white people
What I am is the Indian who can’t die. I’m the worst dream America ever had.
“They were just making a living,” I countered.
Isnt that always the justification for a white man. Just doing their job
We never called this place ours like that, though. But that didn’t mean it was yours.
She had a short-gun, was trying to make it shoot into her head, but the powder was wet. She was trying to shoot herself because of what a napikwan trader had done to her.
This, I believe, is the story of America, told in a forgotten church in the hinterlands, with a choir of the dead mutely witnessing.
you’re on Indian land whether you admit it or not. We all are.
