Rez Quotes

Well, the thing is, I don't think Indians are nomadic anymore. Most indians anyway.' No, we're not,' I said I'm not nomadic,' Rowdy said. 'Hardly anybody on this rez is nomadic. Except for you. You're the nomadic one.' Whatever.' No. I'm serious. I always knew you were going to leave. I always knew you were going to leave us behind and travel the world. I had this dream about you a few months ago. You were standing on the Great Wall of China. You looked happy. And I was happy for you.' Rowdy didn't cry. But I did. You're an old-time nomad,' Rowdy said. 'You're going to keep moving all over the world in search of food and water and grazing land. That's pretty cool.' I could barely talk. Thank you,' I said. Yeah,' Rowdy said. 'Just make sure you send me postcards, you asshole.' From everywhere,' I said. I would always love Rowdy. And I would always miss him, too. Just as I would always love and miss my grandmother, my big sister, and Eugene. Just as I would always love and miss my reservation and my tribe. I hoped and prayed that they would someday forgive me for leaving them. I hoped and prayed that I would someday forgive myself for leaving them.

Reardan is the rich white farm town that sits in the wheat fields exactly 22 miles away from the Rez. And it's a hick town I suppose filled with farmers and rednecks and racists cops who stop every Indian that drives through. During one week when I was little dad got stopped three times for DWI- Driving While Indian.

The morning of the game, I'd woken up in my rez house so my dad could drive me the twenty-two miles to Reardan, so I could get on the team bus for the ride back to the reservation. Crazy.

I don’t speak Otter, ya dumbass. What are ya waitin’ for? Get over here so we can get back to the rez. Unless I’m talkin’ to a real otter, in which case I’m the dumbass and you can just stay over there.” I

That Native American cultures are imperiled is important and not just to Indians. It is important to everyone, or should be. When we lose cultures, we lose American plurality -- the productive and lovely discomfort that true difference brings.

Would Crazy Horse have spent this much to remodel a kitchen?

I am a zero on the rez. And if you subtract zero from zero, you still have zero. So what's the point of subtracting when the answer is always the same?

To understand American Indians is to understand America. This is the story of the paradoxically least and most American place in the twenty-first century. Welcome to the Rez.

Having something to fight for will make us stronger than anything they can throw at us.

I wonder if How'd we get here? is the wrong question. Maybe the right question is How do we get out of here? Maybe that's the only question that matters.

In the darkness with no ember, cold coals bear no flaming tinder. All the shadows, man resemble. In the darkness, wise men tremble. Prodigious foes made thee for pointless sake of prosaic power. Visited upon thyself no vestige of vision by late nights hour. In the stillness of normal eve, in longing for the night's reprieve. In air and earth arise a faint and subtle shift, tis follies gift. With tremulous breath, whisper faintly from thy spirits tower. 'Woe to me!', thy soul says. Cometh nigh, The Rez.

But it was true—this rezservation was for the dead.

Most of the girls held a single candle, and the combined glow danced among the tear-streaked faces. They were so young, these girls: children. Kathy Torrance had particularly loathed that about Lo/Rez, the way their fan-base had refreshed itself over the years with a constant stream of pubescent recruits, girls who fell in love with Rez in the endless present of the net, where he could still be the twenty-year-old of his earliest hits.

Pritisnila je na gumb dvigala. Šla bo in kupila letalsko vozovnico. Svoboda, ki jo išče, je njena, ne Satakejeva, ne Jajoina, ne Jošijina, in prepričana je bila, da mora biti tam nekje zunaj. Če so se za njo zaprla še ena vrata, nima druge izbire, kot da najde nova in jih odpre. Dvigalo, ki ji je prišlo naproti, je ječalo kot veter. END.

Someone says we beign to die the minute we're born. Death is a part of life. Who knows why the Creator thins the herd. Another old saying says we must all be prepared to give up those we love or die first. Take time to mourn.

The workroom radio, tuned to FM 88.9, emitted Muddy Waters's throaty warbling. A rez station, WOJB did its best to hit every level of musical taste. Absolute bite-ya-in-the-ass blues was aired only during the wee hours. Tracker's favorite time and music.

I’d been trying to escape the rez for years. After all, Indian reservations were created by white men to serve as rural concentration camps, and I think that’s still their primary purpose. So, of course, I ran away from home in third grade. I packed a small bag with comic books, peanut butter sandwiches, and my eyeglasses, and made it almost two miles down the road before my mother found me. After that incident, she often said, “Junior, you were born with a suitcase in your hand.” That might have been a complimentary thing to say to a nomad. But my

Parfois, il me vient dans la tête des idées terribles, j'ai envie de le jeter par la fenêtre, mais nous sommes au rez-de-chaussée, ça ne servirait à rien, on continuerait à l'entendre. Je me console en pensant que les enfants normaux aussi empêchent leurs parents de dormir. Bien fait pour eux.

America is a leap of the imagination. From its beginning, people had only a persistent idea of what a good country should be. The idea involved freedom, equality, justice, and the pursuit of happiness; nowadays most of us probably could not describe it a lot more clearly than that. The truth is, it always has been a bit of a guess. No one has ever known for sure whether a country based on such an idea is really possible, but again and again, we have leaped toward the idea and hoped. What SuAnne Big Crow demonstrated in the Lead high school gym is that making the leap is the whole point. The idea does not truly live unless it is expressed by an act; the country does not live unless we make the leap from our tribe or focus group or gated community or demographic, and land on the shaky platform of that idea of a good country which all kinds of different people share. This leap is made in public, and it's made for free. It's not a product or a service that anyone will pay you for. You do it for reasons unexplainable by economics--for ambition, out of conviction, for the heck of it, in playfulness, for love. It's done in public spaces, face-to-face, where anyone is free to go. It's not done on television, on the Internet, or over the telephone; our electronic systems can only tell us if the leap made elsewhere has succeeded or failed. The places you'll see it are high school gyms, city sidewalks, the subway, bus stations, public parks, parking lots, and wherever people gather during natural disasters. In those places and others like them, the leaps that continue to invent and knit the country continue to be made. When the leap fails, it looks like the L.A. riots, or Sherman's March through Georgia. When it succeeds, it looks like the New York City Bicentennial Celebration in July 1976 or the Civil Rights March on Washington in 1963. On that scale, whether it succeeds or fails, it's always something to see. The leap requires physical presence and physical risk. But the payoff--in terms of dreams realized, of understanding, of people getting along--can be so glorious as to make the risk seem minuscule.

No one should feel guilty about the past. Unless they're not doing anything about the present.

There is that terrible memory, surely, but so too are there sweet ones, the tiny memories with the tiny details that are milder in climax, no doubt, but equally powerful...

But sometimes I can’t help but feel I should have gone. Like it would have made something I cannot name not so lonely.

…and then when it got no brighter she’d pack up and leave as if to chase the sun so it could never set.

I wished that the near impossible would happen: that a passing space rock would collide with it, shatter it to pieces, and send it broken toward the stars.

Ez Gelek Tî Me Şeraba wan lebên lala Bi minde ez gelek tî me Bila xêra te bî cana: Nizanî ez çi birçî me? Ji baxê paxil û sîngê Eger sêvek bidî Seyda Xurînî pê ku bişkînim Diçim ser rê ku rêwî me Eger sênca rez û baxan Çirand û dest birin sêvan Dibî lêv herne ser lêvan Li min megre ku sêwî me Bi tenha ez li çolê me Serî goka di holê me Birîndari m ji wan mijgan Pêrîşani m çi xwînî me? Welatperwer bî ey xanim: Were dest deyne ser canim Birînê min qemûşk bigrin Bi jînê pir bi hêvî me De wer maçek biminde xweş Li dêm ko bisk bikin şevreş Ku ayîna te bigrim ez Ji nûve da bi zanîme? Bihayê herdû sêvên zer Li dil xistin te sed xencer Mebîne qelsemêrim ez Ji kurdên ser nişîvîme? Kurê Xesro û Guhderzim Di vê rêde gelek berzim Evîndarim ku can û dil Li ber destê te danîme Eger ez ser dibim ber pê Xwedana şal û îşerpê Dixwazim ku tu pîroz bit Di vê rê ez çi manî me? Dema çavên te yên mêrkuj Dibênim ez dibim wek mij Peyala şerbeta lêvan Kirim gawir ku yezdî me Ji te dûrim te nabînim Li ser te ez ciger xwînim Çi bêjim ko nikarim bêm Di îro ez swêdî me. Cigerxwîn Stockholm 26.9.1979

Mais c'était surtout aux heures des repas qu'elle n'en pouvait plus, dans cette petite salle au rez-de-chaussée, avec le poêle qui fumait, la porte qui criait, les murs qui suintaient, les pavés humides; toute l'amertume, de l'existence lui semblait servie sur son assiette, et, à la fumée du bouilli, il montait du fond de son âme comme d'autres bouffées d'affadissement.

He’s taken courses on things like animal tracking, making a fire with a bow drill, building survival shelters in the forest. Now, my being an Indian, you might imagine I would know about all that stuff. But most Indian kids, even those on the rez, are not learning those things anymore. They’re too busy doing all the things other kids do—watching DVDs, playing Xbox games, and downloading rap music on their iPods.

Hardly had Juana had time to get settled when there was a clatter in the courtyard. The night sprang into excitement; instructions were shouted, torches brought. And suddenly the doors burst open; suddenly Philip -- hot, handsome, disheveled -- strode in. Philip was blond and sturdy; the gunpowder-train of Juana's emotions, long and dark and twisting, exploded at last. Philip's eyes must have seen, if nothing else, a girl in virginal flush, a young body of sixteen. He could hardly endure the formal presentations of the nobles. As soon as they were ended, he did what is generally referred to as commanding the nearest cleric to marry them on the spot. This person, however -- the Spaniard don Diego Villaescusa, Dean of Jaen -- it was not in Philip's power to order about. But the fact that it must have been Juana who gave the command only serves to underline the mutuality of their haste and hunger. The Dean did as he was bidden; the ignited youngsters kneeled; Philip hurried Juana out. In a room on the rez de chaussee overlooking the turbulent river they tore off their clothes. Someone had managed to get a gilded crucifix nailed on the ceiling above the bed -- surely one of the unnoticed ornaments (and, as things turned out, one of the most inappropriate) ever put up.

Drift. Down through deltas of former girlfriends, degrees of confirmation of girlfriendhood, personal sightings of Rez or Lo together with whichever woman in whatever public place, each account illuminated with the importance the event had held for whoever had posted it. This being for Laney the most peculiar aspect of this data, the perspective in which these two loomed. Human in every detail but then not so. Everything scrupulously, fanatically accurate, probably, but always assembled around the hollow armature of celebrity. He could see celebrity here, not like Kathy’s idea of a primal substance, but as a paradoxical quality inherent in the substance of the world. He saw that the quantity of data accumulated here by the band’s fans was much greater than everything the band themselves had ever generated. And their actual art, the music and the videos, was the merest fragment of that.

Someone says we begin to die the minute we're born. Death is a part of life. Who knows why the Creator thins the herd. Another old saying says we must all be prepared to give up those we love or die first. Take time to mourn.

That Native American cultures are imperiled is important and not just to Indians. It is important to everyone, or should be. When we lose cultures, we lose American plurality—the productive and lovely discomfort that true difference brings.

Back in the time before Columbus, there were only Indians here, no skyscrapers, no automobiles, no streets. Of course, we didn't use the words Indian or Native American then; we were just people. We didn't know we were supposedly drunks or lazy or savages. I wondered what it was like to live without that weight on your shoulders, the weight of the murdered ancestors, the stolen land, the abused children, the burden every Native person carries. We were told in movies and books that Indians had a sacred relationship with the land, that we worshipped and nurtured it. But staring at Nathan, I didn't feel any mystical bond with the rez. I hated our shitty unpaved roads and our falling-down houses and the snarling packs of dogs that roamed freely in the streets and alleys. But most of all, I hated that kids like Nathan - good kids, decent kids - got involved with drugs and crime and gangs, because there was nothing for them to do here. No after-school jobs, no clubs, no tennis lessons. Every month in the Lakota Times newspaper there was an obituary for another teen suicide, another family in the Burned Thigh Nation who'd had their heart taken away from them. In the old days, the eyapaha was the town crier, the person who would meet incoming warriors after a battle, ask them what happened so they wouldn't have to speak of their own glories, then tell the people the news. Now the eyapaha, our local newspaper, announced losses and harms too often, victories and triumphs too rarely.

Run’n’Gun (excerpt) I learned to play ball on the rez, on outdoor courts where the sky was our ceiling. Only a tribal kid’s shot has an arc made of sky. --- We played bigger and bigger until we began winning. And we won by doing what all Indians before us had done against their bigger, whiter opponents—we became coyotes and rivers, and we ran faster than their fancy kicks could, up and down the court, game after game. We became the weather—we blew by them, we rained buckets, we lit up the gym with our moves.

Maybe even wishing I was a winooch and didn’t live on a reservation whose history was in a little museum and could be stolen for a buck. Didn’t make any sense that parts of us were worth so much and at the same time we were worth so little. “You’re nothing.

I hadn’t been there since I was nine, since the time Frick had finally made me put a bullet in a rabbit’s head that hadn’t even turned fully white, this little thing in between changes, in between something larger than simply molting, simple brown to white.

nomment Sagesse et Vérité, Jean vous nomme Lumière, les Rois vous nomment Seigneur, l’Exode vous appelle Providence, le Lévitique Sainteté, Esdras Justice, la création vous nomme Dieu, l’homme vous nomme Père ; mais Salomon vous nomme Miséricorde, et c’est là le plus beau de tous vos noms. » Vers neuf heures du soir, les deux femmes se retiraient et montaient à leurs chambres au premier, le laissant jusqu’au matin seul au rez-de-chaussée. Ici il est nécessaire que nous donnions une idée exacte du logis de M. l’évêque de Digne. q

I draw all the time. I draw cartoons of my mother and father; my sister and grandmother; my best friend, Rowdy; and everybody else on the rez. I draw because words are two unpredictable. I draw because words are too limited. If you speak and write in English, or Spanish, or Chinese, or any other language, then only a certain percentage of human beings will get your meaning. But when you draw a picture, everybody can understand it. If I draw a cartoon of a flower, then every man, woman, and child in the world can look at it and say, "That's a flower.

MacDermid.” Cork’s mother and Grandma Dilsey sat at the kitchen table, each with a cup of coffee, and spread out between them on the tabletop was a jumble of photographs. “Your grandfather,” Grandma Dilsey said when Cork looked over her shoulder. He was a man Cork had never known. Handsome and smiling, he stood with a much younger version of Cork’s grandmother in front of a small white clapboard building, the one-room schoolhouse on the rez where Grandma Dilsey had taught and which had been enlarged to become the community center. Patrick “Paddy” O’Connor had been superintendent in the Tamarack County School District then. He’d died

Indigenous Lives Holding Our World Together, by Brenda J. Child American Indian Stories, by Zitkala-Sa A History of My Brief Body, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Falling Sky: Words of a Yanomami Shaman, by Davi Kopenawa and Bruce Albert Apple: Skin to the Core, by Eric Gansworth Heart Berries, by Terese Marie Mailhot The Blue Sky, by Galsan Tschinag Crazy Brave, by Joy Harjo Standoff, by Jacqueline Keeler Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, by Sherman Alexie Spirit Car, by Diane Wilson Two Old Women, by Velma Wallis Pipestone: My Life in an Indian Boarding School, by Adam Fortunate Eagle Split Tooth, by Tanya Tagaq Walking the Rez Road, by Jim Northrup Mamaskatch, by Darrel J. McLeod

For days coming off that methadone I fought with Mom and I cried to her and she shushed me each time I sat up and tried to get up and at some point Mom spoke to me—not to my body—and she said, “You’ll be back soon,” and the next thing I knew I envisioned Fellis’s truck reversing to a stop in front of Daryl on the ground who laughed and pointed at me and said “earthquake” and I split in half.

…and so no wonder I want to free my leg from where it’s trapped under the side of the car and when I do there is no pain not unlike childhood and red swings and returnables of all hard glass and laughter and the good feelings there in the dark, and when I look at my leg the skin is peeled back my pulsing meat in my face and I grab the flap of skin and flip it over my exposed bone and have you ever tried to walk in such a time of great rupture?

Kako mu je bilo moguće objasniti nešto od one napetosti bez daha, kada nož počinje da para prvi rez, kada se poslije lakog pritiska javi uzani, crveni trag krvi, kada se tijelo kao kava složena zavjesa razvije pod iglama i kopčama, kada se oslobode organi koji nikada nisu vidjeli svjetlosti, kada se kao lovac po džungli ide po tragu i iznenada u razorenim tkivima, u čvorovima, u izraslinama, u pukotinama, nađe ispred velike grabljive smrti - kada se u borbi sa njom ne može upotrijebiti ništa drugo sem tankog sječiva i igle i beskrajno pouzdane ruke - kako mu je valjalo objasniti šta znači to kad kroz sve blještavo bjelilo najviše koncentracije odjednom udari u krv tamna sjenka, veličanstvena poruga koja kao da otupljuje nož, čini iglu lomnom a ruku teškom - i kada to nevidljivo, zagonetno, kucavo - život naglo počne da sahne pod nemoćnim rukama, raspada se privučeno nekim avetinjskim, crnim virom koji je nemoguće dostići i zaustaviti, kad od lice koje je još maločas disalo i bilo JA i nosilo ime postane bezimena, ukočena obrazina - tu besmislenu, buntovnu nemoć - kako ju je bilo moguće objasniti i šta da se tu objasni?

In the moments before my eyes shut, hearing Frick snore and the clock tick toward 4:00 AM, I felt like I knew Robbie, felt like I had memories of him where he took me fishing or hunting, and when I couldn’t take the fish off the hook or when I couldn’t kill the white rabbit, he told me that was fine, and he unhooked the fish—it’s jaw popping, gills throbbing—and plopped it into the river, or he took the rifle from my hands, and after all that we walked away through mud or snow until I stopped walking but he kept on going and going and going out there in quiet strides through a dark-pined forest until he was gone.

She hadn’t always been obsessed with babies. There was a time she believed she would change the world, lead a movement, follow Dolores Huerta and Sylvia Mendez, Ellen Ochoa and Sonia Sotomayor. Where her bisabuela had picked pecans and oranges in the orchards, climbing the tallest trees with her small girlbody, dropping the fruit to the baskets below where her tías and tíos and primos stooped to pick those that had fallen on the ground, where her abuela had sewn in the garment district in downtown Los Angeles with her bisabuela, both women taking the bus each morning and evening, making the beautiful dresses to be sold in Beverly Hills and maybe worn by a movie star, and where her mother had cared for the ill, had gone to their crumbling homes, those diabetic elderly dying in the heat in the Valley—Bianca would grow and tend to the broken world, would find where it ached and heal it, would locate its source of ugliness and make it beautiful. Only, since she’d met Gabe and become La Llorona, she’d been growing the ugliness inside her. She could sense it warping the roots from within. The cactus flower had dropped from her when she should have been having a quinceañera, blooming across the dance floor in a bright, sequined dress, not spending the night at her boyfriend’s nana’s across town so that her mama wouldn’t know what she’d done, not taking a Tylenol for the cramping and eating the caldo de rez they’d made for her. They’d taken such good care of her. Had they done it for her? Or for their son’s chance at a football scholarship? She’d never know. What she did know: She was blessed with a safe procedure. She was blessed with women to check her for bleeding. She was blessed with choice. Only, she hadn’t chosen for herself. She hadn’t. Awareness must come. And it did. Too late. If she’d chosen for herself, she would have chosen the cactus spines. She would’ve chosen the one night a year the night-blooming cereus uncoils its moon-white skirt, opens its opalescent throat, and allows the bats who’ve flown hundreds of miles with their young clutching to their fur as they swim through the air, half-starved from waiting, to drink their fill and feed their next generation of creatures who can see through the dark. She’d have been a Queen of the Night and taught her daughter to give her body to no Gabe. She knew that, deep inside. Where Anzaldúa and Castillo dwelled, where she fed on the nectar of their toughest blossoms. These truths would moonstone in her palm and she would grasp her hand shut, hold it tight to her heart, and try to carry it with her toward the front door, out onto the walkway, into the world. Until Gabe would bend her over. And call her gordita or cochina. Chubby girl. Dirty girl. She’d open her palm, and the stone had turned to dust. She swept it away on her jeans. A daughter doesn’t solve anything; she needed her mama to tell her this. But she makes the world a lot less lonely. A lot less ugly.  

Mamá was mixing bread dough by the kitchen window, pressing and pulling in a culinary tug of war. It took all her strength to mix four loaves at once, flour up to her elbows, tendrils of hair escaping from her bun, but it hardly made sense to do less. Her good bread disappeared as fast as she made it. Why, her family could hammer away a whole loaf in one sitting. Mamá smiled, then crossed herself against the sin of pride. Modesta was always saying, “That’s too much work! Why not just buy a loaf at the store?” Those sickly soft things they call bread? Mamá snorted as she slapped her dough. It was a sin to call such cotton bread! Her bread could stand up to thick bacon sandwiches and homemade blackberry jam. Hers melted in your mouth like cake. Indeed, after supper Father often buttered a big slice for dessert. At the thought of her husband, Mamá crossed herself again, this time not for pride, but for love. Everything she did was done for him. She meant to work for God, to make her life a prayer, but since the first time she saw Manuel, long before they were married, his was the face she pictured as she wiped her brow, bent her back to the task at hand. She shrugged. Perhaps her daughters would do better...

One of the chaperones and parents, Justin Poor Bear, wrote about the event on Sunday in a Facebook post, according to KOTA. “They were getting drunk and around the third quarter they were talking crap to our kids and throwing down beer on some of them, including our staff and students … telling our students to go back to the rez,” Poor Bear wrote. Poor Bear told KOTA he was upset during the incident and was “invited” to “fight about it” by the fans hurling beer from the VIP section.

Arleigh said Rez was back at his own hotel now, but that he’d come later to spend some time with her and thank her for all she’d done. That made Chia feel strange. Now she’d seen him in real life, somehow that had taken over from all the other ways she’d known him before, and she felt kind of funny about him. Confused. Like all of this had pegged him in realtime for her, and she kept thinking of her mother complaining that Lo and Rez were nearly as old as she was. And

None of them knowing that that was Rez hunched down in there, under a jacket, but maybe sensing it somehow. And something in Chia letting her know she’d never quite be like that again. Never as comfortably a face in that crowd. Because now she knew there were rooms they never saw, or even dreamed of, where crazy things, or even just boring things, happened, and that was where the stars came from.

As of today, on Leech Lake, like many other reservations, the tribe owns roughly 4 percent of the land within the reservation boundaries. The rest of the land is divided among county, state, federal, corporate, and private owners.

Deal.” I reached down and put my empty cup on the porch railing. “Speaking of deals, do you know about the one your father had with the Cheyenne Conservancy?” “Yeah, I know about it. I think he was just feeling guilty about making it off the Rez and being a success. He carried big medicine for the tribe and, as I said, was getting more and more traditional as he got older. He was getting so stiff, he probably would’ve ended up standing in front of a cigar store.” He glanced around, his eyes lingering on the clouds building up on the mountains as if trying to push them east.

Indigenous Lives Holding Our World Together, by Brenda J. Child American Indian Stories, by Zitkala-Sa A History of My Brief Body, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Falling Sky: Words of a Yanomami Shaman, by Davi Kopenawa and Bruce Albert Apple: Skin to the Core, by Eric Gansworth Heart Berries, by Terese Marie Mailhot The Blue Sky, by Galsan Tschinag Crazy Brave, by Joy Harjo Standoff, by Jacqueline Keeler Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, by Sherman Alexie Spirit Car, by Diane Wilson Two Old Women, by Velma Wallis Pipestone: My Life in an Indian Boarding School, by Adam Fortunate Eagle Split Tooth, by Tanya Tagaq Walking the Rez Road, by Jim Northrup Mamaskatch, by Darrel J. McLeod Indigenous Poetry Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings, by Joy Harjo Ghost River (Wakpá Wanági), by Trevino L. Brings Plenty The Book of Medicines, by Linda Hogan The Smoke That Settled, by Jay Thomas Bad Heart Bull The Crooked Beak of Love, by Duane Niatum Whereas, by Layli Long Soldier Little Big Bully, by Heid E. Erdrich A Half-Life of Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation, by Eric Gansworth NDN Coping Mechanisms, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Invisible Musician, by Ray A. Young Bear When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through, edited by Joy Harjo New Poets of Native Nations, edited by Heid E. Erdrich The Failure of Certain Charms, by Gordon Henry Jr. Indigenous History and Nonfiction Everything You Know About Indians Is Wrong, by Paul Chaat Smith Decolonizing Methodologies, by Linda Tuhiwai Smith Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, edited by Gary Clayton Anderson and Alan R. Woodworth Being Dakota, by Amos E. Oneroad and Alanson B. Skinner Boarding School Blues, edited by Clifford E. Trafzer, Jean A. Keller, and Lorene Sisquoc Masters of Empire, by Michael A. McDonnell Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee, by Paul Chaat Smith and Robert Allen Warrior Boarding School Seasons, by Brenda J. Child They Called It Prairie Light, by K. Tsianina Lomawaima To Be a Water Protector, by Winona LaDuke Minneapolis: An Urban Biography, by Tom Weber

Why are all those dogs tied to people like that? Don’t they have any lives of their own?

Čim teda získava dnešný človek pocit moci - ak necháme bokom, či moc môže uspokojovať človeka - rozumom, vzdelaním, artistnosťou? Filozofia je istým moderným a vysokým nahradením vlastníctva i sily. Muž, ktorý báda vesmír a je mu jasné, že veci sú také a také a ľudstvo také a také, si môže myslieť, že vlastne premohol to najhoršie, čo je skryté v prírode - totiž jej zvláštnu snahu 'skrývať sa', zabaľovať sa do 'formy' a 'zdania' atd´. Životopisy slávnych filozofov sú svedectvom, že ani jednej vetve 'boja' sa nevenovalo toľko energie a krvi. Koľkí za svoju pravdu zomreli. Lebo ju pokladali za najväčšie dosiahnuteľné bohatstvo. Keby sme im ho vzali a keby sme ich donútili myslieť inak, cítili by sa ako ten Ohňozemec, ktorého vyhnali za krádež. Bergson píše, že túžba po tvorbe je silnejšia ako túžba po živote. Ked´ čítam incých filozofov, cítim, že si mysleli to isté. Hoci nenavštevovali spoločnosť, ne poznali názory na svoje výmysly, predsa zanovite premýšľali, akoby cítili, že raz sa ľudstvo k nim vráti a budú nepostrádateľní. Len silní nepriatelia nás môžu svojou existenciou tak rozhnevať, že nie sme spokojní ani s ich smrťou. Tu dobre cítime, že človek neumiera. Priatelia umierajú, ale nepriatelia nie. Tým by sme chceli pripraviť nieo horšie. Bohužiaľ to nejde. Niekedy som aj rád, že som nedoštudoval filozofiu, lebo mi to umožňuje pomaly pretráviť všetky snahy klasikov i neklasikov... ale chcel som povedať - stále dúfam, že svojím nezaujatým a neovplyvneným mozgom urobím rez do všetkých nejasných a temných polôh dnešnej filozofie - ved´ sa mi filozofia nestala potrebnou z donútenia... Musím preskúmať, či dnešná tendencia nadŕžať všetkým mužom pokroku, všetkým, ktori 'nezištne' presadia dobrú vec, nie je trocha škodlivá, či nie je proti ľudstvu, ktoré ako také nie je schopné odhaľovať 'hračky a hry' prírody a teda ani nemôže navrhovať plány na využitie nafty alebo smetia. Úlohou filozofa môjho typu je teda: zistiť, čo naozaj ľudia chcú.

per Rez XII dogma—battling for supremacy in my addicted mind.

They say you can't step into the same river twice. But maybe a truer saying is that you can't ever dry off.

Nobody prepares you for the sting when you're about to leave home. All my life I wanted to leave the rez - and every time I was about to, I stopped myself. It hurts. Leaving hurts.

26 avril (1996). {Les lieux, les dates et les personnages évoqués dans les pages qui suivent sont aussi authentiques que possible.} Les souvenirs sont encore là, les impressions plutôt (les chiens la nuit, les trottoirs et la chaussée crevée après l'hiver, les sons de la langue roumaine…) qui ne sont pas encore des souvenirs, mais semblent disponibles, mobilisées, présentes. Ce n'est pas que je me souviens : je sais comment faire pour descendre au rez-de-chaussée après le réveil, traverser le terrain qui sépare la Casa de Oaspeți [la Maison d'hôtes de l'Université] de la rue, entre les voitures abandonnées (un car allemand immobilisé là sans doute depuis longtemps) ou en cours de réparation sur un pont rudimentaire, passer devant l'Academia de Arte devant laquelle de bon matin sont déjà rassemblés des étudiants en musique, à côté du robinet vissé à un simple tuyau planté dans le sol, et qui coule toujours (les chiens viennent périodiquement y boire). Tout cela m'est présent. Mais je sens aussi comment ces diverses sensations s'écartent les unes des autres, se désolidarisent déjà : certaines prennent de l'importance aux dépens des autres, forment de petits groupes, s'organisent en "souvenirs" aptes à entrer dans la mémoire profonde.

I feel that I owe my life to them and I set out to write a book that reflects this, reflects the debt I owe them, and does them honor.

The Harvard Project on American Indian Economic Development, begun in 1987 and designed to address economic inequality and development, identified about a dozen reasons why life on the rez was virtually synonymous with a life of poverty. Lack of access to capital was a significant roadblock. “Unfair lending practices, the difficulty of collateralizing assets held in trust by the U.S. government, and low penetration of banking facilities continue to limit the supply of capital in Indian country.

Si vous allez à Gryffondor Vous rejoindrez les courageux, Les plus hardis et les plus forts Sont rassemblés en ce haut lieu. Si à Poufsouffle vous allez, Comme eux vous s’rez juste et loyal Ceux de Poufsouffle aiment travailler Et leur patience est proverbiale. Si vous êtes sage et réfléchi Serdaigle vous accueillera peut-être Là-bas, ce sont des érudits Qui ont envie de tout connaître. Vous finirez à Serpentard Si vous êtes plutôt malin, Car ceux-là sont de vrais roublards Qui parviennent toujours à leurs fins.

Go to Rapid, find Rez and his gang, gain their trust... Then betray them.

...there was this Indian woman hitchhiking back to the Rez in the middle of the night and this white woman picks her up. The Indian woman says, 'Hey, thanks for picking me up. What are you doing out on the road this late?' The white woman points to a bottle in a brown paper bag sitting on the seat between them and says, 'I got this bottle of wine for my husband.' The Indian woman nodded, 'Good trade.

Indigenous Lives Holding Our World Together, by Brenda J. Child American Indian Stories, by Zitkála-Šá A History of My Brief Body, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Falling Sky: Words of a Yanomami Shaman, by Davi Kopenawa and Bruce Albert Apple: Skin to the Core, by Eric Gansworth Heart Berries, by Terese Marie Mailhot The Blue Sky, by Galsan Tschinag Crazy Brave, by Joy Harjo Standoff, by Jacqueline Keeler Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, by Sherman Alexie Spirit Car, by Diane Wilson Two Old Women, by Velma Wallis Pipestone: My Life in an Indian Boarding School, by Adam Fortunate Eagle Split Tooth, by Tanya Tagaq Walking the Rez Road, by Jim Northrup Mamaskatch, by Darrel J.

World Together, by Brenda J. Child American Indian Stories, by Zitkála-Šá A History of My Brief Body, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Falling Sky: Words of a Yanomami Shaman, by Davi Kopenawa and Bruce Albert Apple: Skin to the Core, by Eric Gansworth Heart Berries, by Terese Marie Mailhot The Blue Sky, by Galsan Tschinag Crazy Brave, by Joy Harjo Standoff, by Jacqueline Keeler Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, by Sherman Alexie Spirit Car, by Diane Wilson Two Old Women, by Velma Wallis Pipestone: My Life in an Indian Boarding School, by Adam Fortunate Eagle Split Tooth, by Tanya Tagaq Walking the Rez Road, by Jim Northrup Mamaskatch, by Darrel J.

Holding Our World Together, by Brenda J. Child American Indian Stories, by Zitkála-Šá A History of My Brief Body, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Falling Sky: Words of a Yanomami Shaman, by Davi Kopenawa and Bruce Albert Apple: Skin to the Core, by Eric Gansworth Heart Berries, by Terese Marie Mailhot The Blue Sky, by Galsan Tschinag Crazy Brave, by Joy Harjo Standoff, by Jacqueline Keeler Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, by Sherman Alexie Spirit Car, by Diane Wilson Two Old Women, by Velma Wallis Pipestone: My Life in an Indian Boarding School, by Adam Fortunate Eagle Split Tooth, by Tanya Tagaq Walking the Rez Road, by Jim Northrup Mamaskatch, by Darrel J.

Kadınla tartışmanın anlamı yok. Bunu uzun zaman önce öğrendim.

SNOVNO VASPITANJE Skačem s krova na krov I ogromnom mrežom za leptire Lovim tehnokrate birokrate Gnoseokrate Najlepše primerke stavljam U staklenke sa alkoholom I na ceduljama im ispisujem Učena imena Pokazujem ih đacima na času Zajedno sa dinosaurima Gigantosaurima tiranosaurima Koji poslušno silaze Sa zidova učionice I ti sladiš moj san Vidim smeje ti se levo uvo Izaziva me jedna mirna bubica Moj poznanik nastavnik prirodopisa

Hey, there was this Indian woman hitchhiking back to the Rez in the middle of the night and this white woman picks her up. The Indian woman says, ‘Hey, thanks for picking me up. What are you doing out on the road this late?’ The white woman points to a bottle in a brown paper bag sitting on the seat between them and says, ‘I got this bottle of wine for my husband.’ The Indian woman nodded, ‘Good trade.’” Lolo

I'm going to die an Indian death. I want to lay my neck on there cool steel alloy of the train tracks back home. I want the death of a rez dog. Mutts can't keep away from the tracks. I'm writing you from a behavioral health services building. I agreed to commit myself under the condition they would let me write. You should have thought before you made a crazy Indian woman your lover. Feel culpable in my insanity because you are partly to blame.

My mother was ashamed, under the covers of his bed.She rummaged through her purse and handed him twenty dollars. "Here," he said. "Go back to the rez." This is how we go missing. This is how we decide to leave

And why exactly have you been staring at me all day? Didn't you parents teach you manners? Are you not even a little bit housebroken?" "They're still on the rez on the other side of the mountains. It's a little far for family dinners." I stared at him, then sighed, thoroughly disgruntled. "Well, damn it." "What?" "Now I have to invite you to my house for the next holiday so you're not alone and I don't even like you." He just blinked. "You know, most people are scared of me." "Oh please, have you met Helena Drake? You're a puppy." "A puppy." "A creepy staring puppy. Cut it out, you're going cross-eyed.

I was struck, though I didn’t mention it, by this “we,” a pronoun as vast and emotional as history. Lena, on account of having been on the rez her whole life, could marshal this collective voice. She was one of many in a chorus that sang of flourishing and grief.

Westerns weren’t too popular on the rez,” Z said. “The good guys never win.” “Depends on your point of view.” “Only one right one, Kemosabe.