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Authors: Mary Crow Dog
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car and one shot just missed his leg. Two more police cars drove up. The troopers told the honkies, “Break it up, fellows, go home to the little woman. Call it a day!” Then they started arresting the Indians.
It was the usual sequence. Honkies, be so kind, and go home! Then arrest the Indians for “disturbing the peace.” Put them in jail. Charge them. Let them get bailed out. Drag them into court. Collect the fine. I got scars in my face from this incident, barely an inch from my eye. I kicked one of the honkies in the head, between the legs, wherever I could kick him. Alcohol was not involved in that fracas, except among the honkies. It gets tiresome, almost boring. These things remind me of an old joke: One Indian tells his white neighbor: “You’ve stolen my land, shot my father, raped my wife, got my daughter with child, turned my son on to whiskey. One day I’m gonna lose my patience. Better watch that shit!”
It seemed that my early life, before I met Leonard and before I went to Wounded Knee, was just one endless, vicious circle of drinking and fighting, drinking and fighting. Barb was caught up in the same circle, except that she was running with a different crowd most of the time. She was unusual in that she could drink just one beer or one glass of wine and then stop if she wanted to. Most of us at that stage could not do that.
I had not been drinking for years, but when I heard that one of my closest friends had been found dead with a bullet through her head I broke down completely and felt a sudden need for a drink. I happened to be in New York at the time. Shaking, and with tears streaming down my face, I blindly staggered to the nearest bar and downed four margaritas, one after the other. It had no effect on me. I remained totally sober. And it did not help my sadness. That was the last time.
People talk about the “Indian drinking problem,” but we say that it is a white problem. White men invented whiskey and brought it to America. They manufacture, advertise, and sell it to us. They make the profit on it and cause the conditions that make Indians drink in the first place.
CHAPTER 5
Aimlessness
I am roaming,
Roaming,
Restless,
Aimless.
In the snow I see
My ancestors’
Bloody footprints,
Moccasin prints.
My old boots are worn
And down at the heels.
On what road am I?
The white man’s road,
Or the Indians’?
There are no signposts.
The road is uphill,
And the wind in my face.
Still I go on.
— Yellow Bird
I was a loner, always. I was not interested in dresses, makeup, or perfume, the kinds of things some girls are keen on. I was scared of white people and uneasy in their company, so I did not socialize with them. I could not relate to half-bloods and was afraid that full-bloods would not accept me. I could not share the values my mother lived by. For friends I had only a few girls who were like me and shared my thoughts. I had no place to go, but a great restlessness came over me, an urge to get away, no matter where. Nowhere was better than the place I was in. So I did what many of my friends had already done—I ran away. Barbara, being older, had already set the precedent. A clash with my mother had sent Barb on her way. My mother was, at that time, hard to live with. From her point of view, I guess, we were not easy to get along with either. We didn’t have a generation gap, we had a generation Grand Canyon. Mother’s values were Puritan. She was uptight. I remember when Barbara was about to have her baby, mom cussed her out. Barb was still in high school and my mother was cursing her, calling her a no-good whore, which really shook my sister up. Barb said, “I’m going to have your grandchild, I thought you’d be happy,” but my mother was just terrible, telling Barb that she was not her daughter anymore. My sister lost her baby. She had a miscarriage working in a kitchen detail one morning. They gave her a big, heavy dishpan full of cereal to carry and that
It was the usual sequence. Honkies, be so kind, and go home! Then arrest the Indians for “disturbing the peace.” Put them in jail. Charge them. Let them get bailed out. Drag them into court. Collect the fine. I got scars in my face from this incident, barely an inch from my eye. I kicked one of the honkies in the head, between the legs, wherever I could kick him. Alcohol was not involved in that fracas, except among the honkies. It gets tiresome, almost boring. These things remind me of an old joke: One Indian tells his white neighbor: “You’ve stolen my land, shot my father, raped my wife, got my daughter with child, turned my son on to whiskey. One day I’m gonna lose my patience. Better watch that shit!”
It seemed that my early life, before I met Leonard and before I went to Wounded Knee, was just one endless, vicious circle of drinking and fighting, drinking and fighting. Barb was caught up in the same circle, except that she was running with a different crowd most of the time. She was unusual in that she could drink just one beer or one glass of wine and then stop if she wanted to. Most of us at that stage could not do that.
I had not been drinking for years, but when I heard that one of my closest friends had been found dead with a bullet through her head I broke down completely and felt a sudden need for a drink. I happened to be in New York at the time. Shaking, and with tears streaming down my face, I blindly staggered to the nearest bar and downed four margaritas, one after the other. It had no effect on me. I remained totally sober. And it did not help my sadness. That was the last time.
People talk about the “Indian drinking problem,” but we say that it is a white problem. White men invented whiskey and brought it to America. They manufacture, advertise, and sell it to us. They make the profit on it and cause the conditions that make Indians drink in the first place.
CHAPTER 5
Aimlessness
I am roaming,
Roaming,
Restless,
Aimless.
In the snow I see
My ancestors’
Bloody footprints,
Moccasin prints.
My old boots are worn
And down at the heels.
On what road am I?
The white man’s road,
Or the Indians’?
There are no signposts.
The road is uphill,
And the wind in my face.
Still I go on.
— Yellow Bird
I was a loner, always. I was not interested in dresses, makeup, or perfume, the kinds of things some girls are keen on. I was scared of white people and uneasy in their company, so I did not socialize with them. I could not relate to half-bloods and was afraid that full-bloods would not accept me. I could not share the values my mother lived by. For friends I had only a few girls who were like me and shared my thoughts. I had no place to go, but a great restlessness came over me, an urge to get away, no matter where. Nowhere was better than the place I was in. So I did what many of my friends had already done—I ran away. Barbara, being older, had already set the precedent. A clash with my mother had sent Barb on her way. My mother was, at that time, hard to live with. From her point of view, I guess, we were not easy to get along with either. We didn’t have a generation gap, we had a generation Grand Canyon. Mother’s values were Puritan. She was uptight. I remember when Barbara was about to have her baby, mom cussed her out. Barb was still in high school and my mother was cursing her, calling her a no-good whore, which really shook my sister up. Barb said, “I’m going to have your grandchild, I thought you’d be happy,” but my mother was just terrible, telling Barb that she was not her daughter anymore. My sister lost her baby. She had a miscarriage working in a kitchen detail one morning. They gave her a big, heavy dishpan full of cereal to carry and that
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