Lies have short shelf lives. Lies go bad. Lies rot and stink up the joint.
How can you tell the difference between the good guys and the bad guys when they say the same things?
If the government wants to hide somebody, there’s probably no place more isolated than my reservation, which is located approximately one million miles north of Important and two billion miles west of Happy.
Being colonized automatically makes you bipolar.
My heart is beating a punk rock song against my chest.
I am surrounded by people who trust me to be a respectful stranger. Am I trustworthy? Are any of us trustworthy? I hope so.
I was dancing for my soul and for the soul of my tribe. I was dancing for what we Indians used to be and who we might become again.
If you care about something enough, its going to make you cry.
If you kill a black man, the world is silent. You can hear a garage door opening from twenty blocks away. You can pick up a pay phone and only hear the dial tone. Shooting stars sound exactly like the soft laughter of a little girl in Gasworks Park. If you kill a white man, the world erupts with noise: fireworks, sirens, a gavel pounding a desk, the slamming of doors.
If you don’t like the things you remember, then all you have to do is change the memories. Instead of remembering the bad things, remember what happened immediately before.
After neurosurgery, I have learned that my brain is a boardinghouse where my waking consciousness rents one room with a hot plate and a black-and-white TV while the rest of the rooms are occupied by a random assortment of banshees, ghosts, mimes wearing eagle feathers, and approximately twelve thousand strangers who look exactly like me.
Overnight, I became a good player. I suppose it had something to do with confidence. I mean, I’d always been the lowest Indian on the reservation totem pole – I wasn’t expected to be good so I wasn’t. But in Reardan, my coach and the other players wanted me to be good. They needed me to be good. They expected me to be good. And so I became good. I wanted to live up to expectations. I guess that’s what it comes down to. The power of expectations. pg 181.
My hopes and dreams floated up in a mushroom cloud. What do you do when the world has declared nuclear war on you?
I didn’t yet know that romantic heroes – famous and not – are usually aimless nomads in disguise.
The contemporary motto for the mullet-wearer is “business in front, party in the back” but the Indian mullet warrior motto was “I don’t want my hair to get in my eyes as I’m kicking your ass.
I mean, yeah, my dad would sometimes go on a drinking binge and be gone for a week, but those white dads can completely disappear without ever leaving the living room.
Reservations were meant to be prisons, you know? Indians were supposed to move onto reservations and die. We were supposed to disappear.
If you want to make a white man cry, despite the amount of time it’s been since he last wept aloud, then all you have to do is employ “baseball” and “father” in three consecutive sentences.
Because the thing you learn as a hugely ambitious Indian is that you’re often going to be the only Indian in the room, so you’d better get used to it.
I think you forget things on purpose,” my mother’s ghost said.