Episode 35

The air on the reservation, when I first lived there, was a different kind of air. It wasn't just the scent of pine and dust, or the distant hum of cicadas in the summer heat. It was an air thick with a history that felt more immediate, more vital, than anything I'd ever breathed before. The houses were a patchwork of necessity. Newspaper, for all its ephemeral news, served as insulation, stuffed into cracks and crevices. Tar paper, a dark, rough skin, covered roofs that sagged under the weight of sun and snow. Metal sheets, scavenged and repurposed, became doors or temporary patches. Wood, rough-hewn and often splintered, formed the basic skeletons of homes, the flooring creaking underfoot, uneven and worn. It was a stark contrast to the neatly painted houses I’d known, a visual language of survival, of making do with what was available, what was left.

This was not a life of convenience, far from it. The simple act of fetching water became an expedition, a commitment of time and energy that shaped the rhythm of the day. Miles walked, with buckets slung over shoulders or balanced precariously on heads, to reach a communal spigot, a well, or sometimes just a stream. The outside world, the world of instant connection and readily available resources, felt impossibly distant. A phone call, a television, a computer – these were luxuries, rare commodities that required significant effort to access. Trips to the nearest town for groceries were not casual errands but planned excursions, involving long drives or even longer walks. School and medical care, essential as they were, demanded the same commitment, the same journey over dusty roads or rugged terrain. This was a daily reality of distance and effort, a testament to the enduring spirit of those who lived it.

And the bullying. Oh, the bullying. It was a constant, gnawing ache, a prejudice so deeply ingrained it felt like a physical force. I remember the exact words, seared into my memory, spoken with a venom that still makes my skin crawl. The dry cleaners in Tooele, Utah. My late Apache husband and I, seeking a simple service, were met with outright rejection. "We don't want your kind around here," they’d spat, their faces contorted with a hatred that was both chilling and baffling. "You're nothing but a filthy savage. The only good savage is a dead savage." My current husband, who was with me, witnessed it too. He couldn't believe his ears, his eyes. It was a public declaration of a vile prejudice that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long, finally erupting with shocking ferocity. Sixteen years later, the sting remains, the tears welling up as I recount it. They forget, these people who arrived on these shores, that we were here first. We are the true Americans, Canadians, Mexicans. We are the original inhabitants, and yet, we are treated as outsiders in our own lands, subjected to a hatred that is both ancient and disturbingly persistent.