“Do you know why the Indian rain dances always worked? Because the Indians would keep dancing until it rained.”

“I didn't literally kill Indians. We were supposed to make you give up being Indian. Your songs and stories and language and dancing. Everything. We weren't trying to kill Indian people. We were trying to kill Indian culture.”

“It sucks to be poor, and it sucks to feel that you somehow deserve to be poor. You start believing that you're poor because you're stupid and ugly. And then you start believing that you're stupid and ugly because you're Indian. And because you're Indian you start believing you're destined to be poor. It's an ugly circle and there's nothing you can do about it.”

“I always think it's funny when Indians celebrate Thanksgiving. I mean, sure, the Indians and Pilgrims were best friends during the first Thanksgiving, but a few years later, the Pilgrims were shooting Indians.So I'm never quite sure why we eat turkey like everybody else.”

“Yes, I am Irish and Indian, which would be the coolest blend in the world if my parents were around to teach me how to be Irish and Indian. But they're not here and haven't been for years, so I'm not really Irish or Indian. I am a blank sky, a human solar eclipse.”

“They're all gone, my tribe is gone. Those blankets they gave us, infected with smallpox, have killed us. I'm the last, the very last, and I'm sick, too. So very sick. Hot. My fever burning so hot. I have to take off my clothes, feel the cold air, splash water across my bare skin. And dance. I'll dance a Ghost Dance. I'll bring them back. Can you hear the drums? I can hear them, and it's my grandfather and grandmother singing. Can you hear them?I dance one step and my sister rises from the ash. I dance another and a buffalo crashes down from the sky onto a log cabin in Nebraska. With every step, an Indian rises. With every other step, a buffalo falls. I'm growing, too. My blisters heal, my muscles stretch, expand. My tribe dances behind me. At first they are no bigger than children. Then they begin to grow, larger than me, larger than the trees around us. The buffalo come to join us and their hooves shake the earth, knock all the white people from their beds, send their plates crashing to the floor. We dance in circles growing larger and larger until we are standing on the shore, watching all the ships returning to Europe. All the white hands are waving good-bye and we continue to dance, dance until the ships fall off the horizon, dance until we are so tall and strong that the sun is nearly jealous. We dance that way.”

“All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferablyfrom a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slenderand in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian manthen he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so whitethat we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gaspsat the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature: brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.Indian men, of course, are storms. The should destroy the livesof any white women who choose to love them. All white women loveIndian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgustat the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him. White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian manunbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visionsif they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indianthen the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carryan Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breedand obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is insidea white woman. Sometimes there are complications.An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian womancan be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances, everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gendernot important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written, all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.”