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That’s how you talk about dead people, though, especially dead Indians. It’s all about squandered potential, not actual accomplishments.
This is something all Indians think, I think: that, yeah, we got colonized, yeah, we got all our lands stolen, yeah yeah yeah, all that usual stuff. But still, inside us, hiding—no, hibernating, waiting, curled up, is some Crazy Horse kind of fighter. Some killer who’s smart and wily and wears a secret medicine shirt that actually works.
if this was the underside of the living room, then what did that make it, right?
When you come back from the dead, you’re a spirit, you’re nothing, just some leftover intention,
Indians, we don’t have guardian angels—if we did, they’d have been whispering to us pretty hard when some certain ships bobbed up on the horizon—but we do have helpers. I think usually it’s supposed to be an animal. Maybe when you need more, though, maybe then you get a person.
When I was twelve years old, I mapped the interior of our home.
