by David Treuer
But it will be hard to change the mistrust many Indians have of government and policing. In a recent arrest report filed at the Cass County sheriff’s office, an Indian man hitchhiking from Cass Lake to Bemidji was seen weaving over the white fog line that separates the shoulder from the roadway. A police officer witnessed the man stagger into traffic and stopped. He “asked how [he] was doing.” But the man was combative and verbally abusive. “He stated that I was ‘on Indian land’ and began cussing at me.” The officer continued to talk with the man and let him know he was concerned because he was walking in the roadway. Then the man lunged at the officer and grabbed for the officer’s duty pistol. According to the officer: “I immediately struck [him] with the palm of my left hand on the left side of his upper torso. [He] released his grip and staggered backward. [He] then took a fighting stance and charged me. [He] swung his right fist at my face. I stepped to the side and took control of [his] right arm, and lowered him to the ground with a straight arm takedown.” The officer then got the man into the back of the squad car. While in transit the man shouted at the officer all the way to the Cass County Jail. He stated: ‘You fucking bastard! I’ll get you! Fuck you, fuck you! Fuck you white boy.’”
In another incident an Indian man was stopped in Cass Lake for drunk driving. He could barely stand. He was searched, cuffed, and placed in the backseat of the cruiser. “I transported [him] to the Cass County Jail for Implied Consent and while en-route he stated I couldn’t arrest him for DWI being he didn’t take the test. That the Indians are going to have an up rising [sic] and kill the Whites. He stated that he was going to fuck me up at the jail when the cuffs come off. Upon arrival at the jail he stated all is good and shook my hand.”
Charley Grolla says the same distrust of white law enforcement extends to white officers employed by tribal law enforcement agencies. “Some of the white officers have a tough time at Red Lake,” he says. “I think to myself, they’d better not go alone, they’ll start a riot. I mean, not that they are bad officers, they’re not. They’re good. But the green ones don’t necessarily know Indians. And the Indians don’t know them. So when the officer shows up they’ll say, ‘Hell, no. I won’t go in with you. I won’t get in the car.’ And they’ll make a run for it. But they say to me and Nelson and the other Indian officers, ‘I’ll go in with you, but not with that white devil.’ Seriously! I’ve heard that ‘white devil’ stuff a lot. People say that shit!”
2
Tribal courts are getting better—stronger, more impartial, and staffed by people with a lot of experience in the field. When tribal courts started, many of the judges, though they were Indian, had no formal legal training. It was hard to find Indian lawyers. Both problems have been amended in many places. Now ten of the eleven bands or tribes in Minnesota have lawyers as judges. The perception of unfairness that attended the early days of tribal courts has also been dispelled. This has been one of the greatest victories for the tribal court at Lac Courte Oreilles (LCO) Reservation and a personal victory for Brian Bisonette, the tribal secretary-treasurer for LCO.
Roughly 107 square miles in area and with more than 3,500 residents, LCO is one of the largest of the eleven reservations in the state, and one of the poorest. In terms of gross revenue it ranks as the third poorest in the state. Unemployment is high. Social problems abound. Milwaukee-based gangs like the Latin Kings were so entrenched at LCO that in 2002 the tribe declared a state of emergency. Dealing drugs there, and on other reservations, is easy, says Steve Hagenah of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. He explains drug dealing on reservations in general this way: “It’s easy for them to sell drugs on the rez. Gangsters buy drugs, mostly meth, from Mexicans in Minneapolis and drive it up to Red Lake and Leech Lake and White Earth, places like that. They then give free drugs to girls in exchange for sex and a place to stay. They keep the drugs in their cars. With no drugs on the premises it’s hard to get warrants. When the cops get close they just close their trunks and drive away. It’s easy. They’ve got no overhead except for gas.” This is also true of LCO, which is a convenient place for drug dealers from Chicago, Milwaukee, and Minneapolis. In response the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the FBI, and the state of Wisconsin partnered with the tribe and together they worked to put a stop to the trade in crack and meth; their efforts led to the arrest of at least twenty-seven tribal members in 2004.
Brian Bisonette is on the tribal council at LCO. Bisonette is a good man for the job of secretary-treasurer. His hair is shaved on the sides and long on top and in back, styled in what some call an Ojibwe-mullet. He isn’t especially tall, but he has long arms and strong shoulders. He walks slightly bowlegged. All in all, he has what I think of as the classical Ojibwe build: strong, balanced, not especially fast, more like a badger than a wolf. He speaks slowly, in a lilting voice that is like his gait. Even in English he sounds like a Wisconsin Ojibwe—these Ojibwe are known for being excellent talkers who speak slowly and musically. It is hard to imagine Brian getting really worked up about something or showing too much excitement. He chooses his words carefully. “Even to this day I don’t honestly see myself as a politician. I got into politics because I believed in myself and I think I have vision. And I was concerned about the direction my community was going in. I didn’t really have any desire for politics, not really, you know. I do know a lot in a lot of different areas. All in all I cared about my community and was encouraged by people I held in high regard, people I thought of as really intelligent. But I’d seem some of the decisions being made here and I didn’t like them. It didn’t seem like they had the vision or took the opportunity to delay their decisions and weigh all their options. A good example is as regards our land. At the time, around 2000, we used to issue land leases to any tribal member who met the criteria. The problem was that they were issuing leases scattered all over the place. Our reservation is small. We’ve got to think about a plan. They gave out residential land leases to tribal members but put them in areas that only benefited the leasees. They put those houses right on hunting and trapping grounds. They were giving a benefit to one person and everyone suffered the consequences, so I pushed a moratorium on leasing, and worked on a land-lease plan, a land-use plan for housing and development. It was situations like that—I’ve got a lot of experience and education—that was a motivator for me. I’d been passive, unconcerned, like the average tribal member. But I saw this stuff going on and I thought it could be made better. I got elected in 2003. Being the young naive guy I was I thought I could go in there and make all these changes. And then you try and it’s a lot harder than you believe. The reality is that change will come, but it’s incumbent upon you once you get elected to learn, to get all the information and be flexible and see all the options, and come up with alternatives. Since 2003 we’ve made some huge changes around here. Changes for the better. We’ve been supporting each other on the council. One of our biggest accomplishments was giving our tribal court autonomy. It was a first step in setting up a separation of powers. It was difficult. You had a council at that time which you could call ‘old school.’ They liked the concept of being the supreme court. They liked the power. It took a lot of debate. Even after the court codes were amended it still didn’t sink in with some of the council members. I remember one of the first decisions the judge made affected one of the council member’s family. He came running up: ‘We need to overturn this.’ Nope. Can’t do it. Read the court codes. It took a lot of work. For the most part tribal courts have been perceived as kangaroo courts. Whatever decision the judge made could be overridden by the tribal council. My feeling is, it’s all about fairness to everyone. Just because you are connected through friendship or you’re a relative it shouldn’t have any bearing. I mean, how fair is it if you and me go to court? You’ve got a case against me and it’s iron clad. But you go into tribal court knowing my uncle is the chairman. How are you going to feel knowing the judge will decide in your favor and then I go to the council and
change the verdict? That’s crazy. That’s not justice. We amended the codes to fix that problem. You can appeal a decision but not to the tribal council. You go to an appellate court made up of Wisconsin judges—so the decision goes to them and they are impartial. I love hanging my hat on that one.”
Fairness is something that Brian Bisonette is clearly passionate about. No one expects fairness. Just after he was elected in 2003 he was gassing up his boat at the tribal trading post. A recent voter said something like, “It’s nice to get voted in.” “I told her—I’ve had this boat for years. I’ve always worked. I’ve worked my whole life and I’m good with my money. I’m careful with it. And so I can afford this boat. I don’t get anything extra.”
A lot of talent leaves reservations because there is no employment security. Few unions function on the reservation. There are few employment codes that are enforced. Brian’s daughter was considering applying for a job on a neighboring reservation notorious for its corruption.
“I told her—there’s no job security over there. Work here, at LCO. The pay isn’t great, but at least you’ve got security here. Here you make less money and over there you make more, but you’ve got protections here. We have a tribal hiring committee that is independent of the appeals committee. Our tribe has lost a lot because it has violated its own employment policies. In the last few years we’ve gotten out of the business of personal personnel appeals. The number of personal appeals was outrageous. I didn’t get elected to hear all these appeals. When you get politics involved, the hiring process and the appeals process get to be a joke. We amended the personnel policies and procedures. We’ve got appeals committee, hearing committee, screening committee. We have staff who have been appointed to serve in these capacities. The tribal governing board doesn’t get involved in any of that anymore. We’re keeping politics out of government. We’re striving for fairness for our own people. If the system isn’t fair, how can we lead?”
At places like LCO around the country tribal courts are getting more effective and bolder. They are beginning to establish juvenile courts, conservation courts, appellate courts, and so on. Constitutional reform is a reality at many places. And although jurisdiction, like the problems courts are trying to fix, is largely a checkerboard affair, Indians are beginning to change what is meant by “Indian justice.”
And such changes don’t affect just Indians. They might very well affect white people, too. Certainly the relationship between Natives and non-Natives is getting a little better than when anthropologists went around scratching the chests of Indians at White Earth. It is maddening to wonder how many thousands of acres of Indian land were lost because two guys went around White Earth Reservation in 1916 scratching the chests of my ancestors. I think it’s safe to say that very few white people have ever lost their land because two academics showed up on their front stoops, scratched their chests, and measured their skulls. But as a result of this study, lots of white people came to live on Indian land and still live there, many generations after the passing of the Dawes Act. More white people than Indian people live within the external boundaries of Leech Lake Reservation.
Nett Lake tribal court is a long way from the paternalism of the 1950s. Court is wrapping up for the day. I was impressed—newly impressed by my mother. It struck me as totally strange and totally awesome to see a white lawyer defending Indian clients in front of an Indian judge. Among the more serious cases I heard that day was the case of the Boy with Blue Hair. He was Indian but not enrolled at Bois Forte. At Bois Forte the court has jurisdiction over all enrolled Indians of federally recognized tribes in the United States (but not Indians enrolled in tribes in Canada—even if the community is Ojibwe, too). If an Indian who is not enrolled is charged, like the blue-haired boy, he has to voluntarily submit to the authority of the court in order to have his case heard there. Otherwise it will be transferred to the county. The boy had lived all his life at Bois Forte. It was his home. He submitted and pleaded guilty. He was charged with disorderly conduct—vandalism. As he told the court, he was riding snowmobiles with his friends and he threw two eggs at a house from the back of the snowmobile he was on. He was caught almost immediately and he went back to the house to apologize and clean the egg up. The boy, age seventeen, was obviously nervous. His hands shook and there was a quaver in his voice when he pleaded guilty and explained himself to the court. I knew how he felt. Many times I’d had to stand in front of my mother and explain myself. It was never comfortable.
When he was finished my mother asked him, “Were you mad at those people? Did you have it in for them or were you just having fun?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah mad or yeah having fun?”
“Yeah, your honor, just having fun.”
She perused his case file and looked down at him seriously from the bench.
“It says here you get A’s and B’s in school.”
“Yes, your honor.”
She sentenced him to $150 fine and fifteen days in jail but suspended the sentence and gave him ten hours of community service.
“And I want you to keep getting A’s and B’s in school. I want you to do something with your life. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, your honor.”
“Good. I know your grandma. I know she looks after you. I don’t want her to pay for what you did. I don’t want you to be a burden and make her life harder. OK? You’re smart. Do something with your life.”
Visibly relieved, he thanked the court and left with his grandmother beside him.
By the time she heard the last case it was growing dark. Night comes early so far north in the middle of winter. Spring was still a few months away. I drove all the way back to Leech Lake while my mother ate sunflower seeds and drank coffee. There is a part of her that very much likes having a chauffeur.
As I drove between the pine-covered rock outcroppings and frozen creeks with nothing to light our way except our own weak headlights, I thought about my own transgressions as a teenager. I thought about how my brother, my cousins, and I not only “egged” houses but egged the church, the bar, the grocery store, and the priest’s house—pretty much every significant structure in Bena with the exception of the post office. My cousin Delbert was much more daring than we were; he actually flung open the door of the Bena bar and hurled eggs inside. I remember seeing him standing in the rectangle of light that spilled from the open doorway. I was a way off but I heard shouts and I heard Delbert shout back, something like a war whoop, as he chucked the eggs in. He was always braver than I was. I was the one who threw the eggs at the rectory and somehow managed to break the front window there. We took off howling into the night. Later, having run out of eggs, we sat on the steps of the boarded-up community hall. After a while we saw someone stagger out of the bar down the street. He made his way into the middle of the highway and, using the dividing line, began walking toward us. He was very drunk. We began teasing him. “You old drunk!” shouted Dell. “Yeah,” I said, trying to sound as tough as he was, “yeah, you old drunk.” We thought this was pretty funny. When he drew even with us he paused and turned to look at us. It was my grandfather. “What are you kids looking at?” We ran.
The ride home was quiet. My mother and I were lost in our separate thoughts. I asked her, “How did you manage it?”
“Manage what?”
“I don’t know. How’d you manage not to buy in to all the bullshit? All that Indian shame. All that shame your generation felt about being Indian. You never seemed to feel that and you raised us not to feel that way. How’d you do it?”
I was thinking of my own children.
She was quiet for a few minutes.
“Because I was the queen of Bena. I was the damn queen of Bena!” And then she laughed. “That’s what everyone called me. I don’t know why.”
Dustin Burnette at Bemidji State University
Courte
sy Anton Treuer
4
When my brother Tony and I were kids we had two fishing buddies, Reagan and Patrick Morgan. They seemed a lot older than we were, though Reagan couldn’t have been more than sixteen. There was no telling how old Patrick was. They were Leech Lake Indians, like us, but also not like us. Reagan was huge, stout, his body strong and soft at the same time. He had big hands and a big head, black hair parted in the middle and feathered back, thick tinted glasses, and bad acne. Patrick was the opposite: skinny, with a sharp face and short hair that always, no matter the season, tufted out from his head at odd angles. Patrick was handicapped. To this day I don’t know what he suffered from, but he dragged one leg and his right hand curled up like a bird’s wing against his chest. We never asked what was wrong with him and never teased him.
We rarely saw them at school. We never went over to their house. They never came to ours. But in the summer Tony and I would bike to the end of our dirt road and Reagan and Patrick would be waiting on their bikes, turning circles in the middle of the highway, and then we would all set off for the dam. Once we got there, Reagan, Tony, and I would fish. Reagan showed a lot of patience with Patrick, who usually did not fish with us for long. Patrick’s attention would wander and then Patrick wandered after it.
Reagan always got his hands on contraband. He had candy, Cokes, and Snickers bars. Reagan always shared. There was a place on the river-bank near the fence where the riprapped stones had tumbled just so, creating a cave of sorts. It wasn’t a real cave—it was no more than a foot in diameter and just slightly more than arm-deep. But you could hide things there. You could reach back with your hand and feel the cool damp stones. It was cold and slimy but all the same we were tempted to leave something of value in our cave to create the thrill of future discovery. So Reagan took one of his Cokes and placed it in the cave, and we covered the entrance with dead grass and a stick or two and left it there when we biked home in the afternoon. It was there the next day. No one ever found the things we left: lures, Cokes, a chocolate bar inside a ziplock bag.