Excerpt #1

"Yeah, you don't believe in the Ghost Dance, do you? Oh, you like its symbolism. You admire its metaphorical beauty, enit? You just love Indians so much. You love Indians so much you think you're excluded from our hatred. Don't you see? If the Ghost Dance had worked, you wouldn't be here. You'd be dust."

"Dr. Faulkner," Mather said. "Please put an end to this ridiculous digression."

But Faulkner, fascinated by Marie now, was silent.

"So maybe this Indian Killer is a product of the Ghost Dance. Maybe ten Indians are Ghost Dancing. Maybe a hundred. It's just a theory. How many Indians would have to dance to create the Indian Killer? A thousand? Ten thousand? Maybe this is how the Ghost Dance works."

"Ms. Polatkin, the Ghost Dance was not about violence or murder. It was about peace and beauty."

"Peace and beauty? You think Indians are worried about peace and beauty? You really think that? You're so full of shit. If Wovoka came back to life, he'd be so pissed off. If the real Pocahontas came back, you think she'd be happy about being a cartoon? If Crazy Horse, or Geronimo, or Sitting Bull came back, they'd see what you white people have done to Indians, and they would start a war. They'd see the homeless Indians staggering around downtown. They'd see the fetal-alcohol-syndrome babies. They'd see the sorry-ass reservations. They'd learn about Indian suicide and infant-mortality rates. They'd listen to some dumb-shit Disney song and feel like hurting somebody. They'd read books by assholes like Wilson, and they would start killing themselves some white people, and then kill some asshole Indians, too.

"Dr Mather, if the Ghost Dance worked, there would be no exceptions. All you white people would disappear. All of you. If those dead Indians came back to life, they wouldn't crawl into a sweathouse with you. They wouldn't smoke the pipe with you. They wouldn't go to the movies and munch popcorn with you. They'd kill you. They'd gut you and eat your heart."



Alexie, Sherman. Indian Killer. New York: Grove Press, 1996.
p. 313-314

Proposal for Interaction with the Community

My concept is one of the more difficult concepts to relate to an activity with which I would interact with my community. My goal is to show how students' education regarding famous Native American figures is inadequate. I wish to use a worksheet, one that would require my peers to recognize and match several famous figures in American history, as well as famous Native American figures, to their corresponding names. I hope to use this research to prove that students know little of Native American figures and may recognize the names of these figures but do not fully understand or realize their importance in American history as well as they may know of figures in United States' history.

Short Story #3

Before turning back to me, he takes the Smoking Stick and, as smoke plumes out of the top, closes his eyes. He holds up his left hand and speaks with clarity and strength, singing the prayers of our forefathers. I grasp my side and look at my hand: crimson liquid is still seeping out of my wound. I look back at the Medicine Man and instantly substantiate my undying trust in his powers.

* * * * *

The sound of hooves pounding on the dry, compact earth and the rumbling of buffalo are the only things that can be heard. I block out all sound and movement other than the hulking animal I spot out of the corner of my eye. I gently guide my horse to the direction I want it to travel and slyly make my way towards my prize. It is nothing short of colossal and surely one of the largest out of the herd, with the capacity of feeding nearly half our community. No matter its size or brute strength, I am going to take it home as a demonstration and confirmation of my manhood.

One inhalation of breath later and I charge at the beast, howling in pride and anticipation. Wind flies past me and I narrow my eyes to see clearly the direction I am moving. The animal, spotting my journey, begins to turn in the opposite direction to avoid being struck by the spear I hold haughtily in my hand. Continuing my strong grasp on my spear, I prepare myself for the strike. I get closer to the animal and visualize the attack in my mind before I act.

Before I can make my assault, the animal abruptly shifts towards the left and I miss my mark. While on my horse, cursing myself, I begin to turn around to face the animal once more.

As I turn, I lose my balance and fall off my horse, which soon after hurries away in fright. I fall to the ground immediately and scream in agonizing pain. I look down towards my chest and find the end of my spear jutting out of my body, a frightening sight. The thick, crimson liquid drips out of the crevices of the wound and I can feel its warmth crawling down my body. The spear is frayed as if it was a rope and slivers of wood pierce me, making miniscule yet painful incisions in my skin. I wince as I try to remove the bloody object but the pain is too unbearable. My brother sees me lying on the ground and rushes over to me. He yells for assistance and, after three other men arrive, I am brought back to the village with the lengthy wooden object obviously protruding through my body.

They lay me by the fire and call for the women. I am being tended to by all the women of the village, and a little girl comes up to my torso and offers me a jug of water. I gulp the precious sustenance and then bite down on the cloth put near my mouth. I begin to yell in agonizing pain, though muffled, and bite down on the cloth with all the strength I have. The spear is being taken out of my chest so that my wounds may be tended to; I see the shards leave the area in small piles. I wait for over an hour until I am able to be moved inside.

The younger women take me inside a home and begin to use needles sterilized by the fired to drag a long section of durable fiber through the wound. After this, the women call for the men to move me yet again: this time, to the home of the Medicine Man.

* * * * *

I inhale sharply as the constant, searing pain increases in strength and intensity. The smoke, dissipating as it rises, obstructs my vision as I try to make out the faces of the others with me. This home is small, but has a comforting atmosphere and relaxes me.

I am anxious as I breathe in the smoky air and I can feel it make its way into my lungs. I cough, and a hand is put over my nose and mouth. I am alarmed at first, considering my airway was abruptly obstructed, but I quickly realize that it is to keep the smoke inside of my body. I will not get any better if I do not receive the remedy.

Placing his right thumb directly in the center of my forehead, the Medicine Man chants a prayer with such a softness that I cannot make out what he is saying. He takes his other hand and dips his fingers inside an intricately designed container, which are then covered in a slick substance that shines from the light of the sun which seems to give it a sense of importance and magnitude. He drags this substance up one arm and across my chest, then down the other. He dips his hand into the container again and then proceeds to create lines under both eyes. The aroma stings my eyes and I begin to blink furiously but the feeling soon subsides.

Still chanting, the Medicine Man places both hands over my eyes and utters the prayers with more feeling and intensity as the woman who is also there places her tiny hands on my chest and gently pushes down in the same rhythm that the Medicine Man is speaking. She, too, begins to say the prayers. One, two. One, two. This ensues for a while and I am unsure as to whether the prayers have an end or will go on forever.

My vision is regained as the Medicine Man's hands are no longer covering my eyes and I notice that a fire is being tended to by the woman now. She gathers ingredients and then places them in a black pot. She grabs a wooden spoon and begins stirring, praying all the while.

The Medicine Man takes some feathers that have been sitting at the edge of the home and meticulously places them on separate parts of my body: my arms, my legs, my chest. He prays again and takes the feathers and places them back in their designated spot.

Before turning back to me, he takes the Smoking Stick and, as smoke plums out of the top, closes his eyes. He holds up his left hand and speaks with clarity and strength, singing the prayers of our forefathers. I grasp my side and look at my hand: crimson liquid is still seeping out of my wound. I look back at the Medicine Man and instantly substantiate my undying trust in his powers.