#Spirit of the north leech lake series
In 2021, I was surprised to see those kids again-different names, different tribes-stealing a truckload of Flaming Flamers chips in the opening minutes of the FX series Reservation Dogs. And that’s the story about how my first real car got fucked up by a bunch of Indian kids. “I didn’t know it was yours!” I shook him a few more times while I said something about the car being new, how they could throw rocks at white people but should leave me and my car alone. “Is that you, Cheyenne? That you throwing shit at my car?” “I didn’t know it was yours!” he yelled. I put my hands on Cheyenne’s shirt and lifted him up on his toes. They turned to run just as I jumped out of the corn. And then … Oh shit! I saw them: bushy hair, baggy jeans, skater-punk tees. The corn was high and waxy, and the leaves looked wet under the sodium lamps. I got out of the car and walked through a cornfield to surprise them. Some of these kids were brothers-like, actual brothers-but they were all related in that Indian way. It had to be Cheyenne and Charlie and Robbie and Davey and Ogema. I slammed on the brakes and said, “Let’s get ’em.” That’s where they hung out, on the south side of town. And I just knew it was those Metallica-T-shirt and nunchuck kids from nearby throwing rocks at my ride. We were headed home and had turned onto Lake Avenue and suddenly- pop-pop-pop-my car was under attack.
#Spirit of the north leech lake movie
My brother and a buddy and I had gone to the movie theater to see Speed. It was the right thing to do, the only thing: I’d moved away when I was 17, and now I was 23 and I felt disconnected, adrift on American seas, invisible in a way only Native people can understand.Īnyway, it was a good night. I’d dropped out of grad school the year before and come back home. I was driving from Bemidji, Minnesota, back to my house, on the edge of the Leech Lake Reservation. This new car was sensible: a 1993 Honda Accord done up in pale blue. And then I’d had a ’79 Thunderbird that everyone called the “Thunderchicken” because it had a broken door and one of the eight cylinders didn’t work. I’d had a ’67 Catalina that started about half the time, and went off the road the other half because the tires were worn down to nubs. So this one time some rez kids messed up my car. This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday.
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