Butler And Robideaus Trial Analysis

Wednesday, December 8, 2021 5:15:21 AM

Butler And Robideaus Trial Analysis



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WARRIOR The Life of Leonard Peltier

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He lifts his pants legs to reveal ankles now raw from poison oak, and notices bloodstains where his toes have bled into his torn prison slippers. He looks around, but there are no shoes. Smiling, he shakes it off as he stands and slings the rifle onto his back. He positions the roll under his arm and squats again, his back up against a tree, facing the mouth of the basin. Doing nothing will prove a challenge, but it is one he is used to. Many say take one day at a time, but few have had to live it, hour to hour.

Leonard closes his eyes, and his own breathing lulls him into a deep sleep. Leonard Peltier is a man of considerable self-discipline. If the air conditioner runs too long, the engine will overheat. Sacrifices of one kind or another come in expected ways in a dryland life. How could anybody be that lucky in such a compact area and given the unforgiving terrain? You kept our history, just got rid of us. Eddy Light Horse has a hunch and he tries to direct the sheriff, who rarely listens to him until there is no alternative.

Eddy wants to survey the new Sun Dance grounds. Officer Eddy knows many Lompoc inmates are local boys, with Indians in population. They probably spent weeks trading ideas and covering the area with Peltier. Eddy continues, whether the sheriff is listening or not. They could lay out a whole map of the area that way. When you say armed and dangerous every minute, it just scares you in the end, and everybody freezes. Or shoots at the wrong thing.

All them farmers are armed. Besides, I heard he went over that fence without a weapon. What else you hear, mister? You smoke a pipe or a gun, but not both. This is not a religious individual! But he knows his source is real. Why bother? He points the truck off the beaten path and jolts into the low hills. A few empty hours later the two men spot patrol cars from three different counties parked haphazardly.

A few engines are still running, meaning the occupants exited quickly. Several radio frequencies led them to the spot. Turn it up, nitwit! Two ranchers are also on-site, their drawn guns pointing to the ground. The sheriff and Light Horse jump out and bust into the circle to see what the curiosity is all about. Up on a high hill Eddy spots the remnants of a recent Sun Dance, marked with thin strips of faded cloth, prayer ties still hanging from nearby tree limbs.

The soft wind lifts them. Nightfall is approaching. A washed-out handwritten sign on a fence post reads No cameras, no alcohol, no drugs, no firearms, no recording devices of any kind. The drainpipe the cops have surrounded is nearby, but the mouth of the drain is outside the ceremonial grounds. Eddy turns full circle, observing. The sheriff holds out his badge, but it is Eddy who waves everyone to back up, thinking, What in hell are they aiming at, a snake bed? Is there a man inside that drain?

Something green is on top of the rocks piled at the entrance in full view. It appears to be an army-issue wool blanket. The sheriff points with his gun to direct a county cop to pull it out. Everyone knows it gets cold come nightfall. The sheriff jumps as if it were a snake. Before anyone gets a chance to kick at it, he picks up the pouch, then gently lifts the wooden stem as well. Nobody stops him; nobody wants to. Maybe Peltier is hurt out there. The wind begins to kick up and with it a familiar howl. The Canadian provinces of Manitoba and Saskatchewan and Ontario are as familiar names to the Oneidas as Green Bay is to their brothers and sisters to the north. The little girl had managed to find a pair of worn skates two sizes too big and stuffed them with old socks and newspaper and made them fit.

She was determined, resourceful, and skated at a remarkable speed. Small and lean, she loved the movement, the call to be fearless, and especially she loved speeding through darkness. She liked to sneak out at night, hit the ice, and feel alive as the freezing air hit her face. A Wisconsin winter meant real ice. Locals knew what was safe. Dorothy skated by the light of the moon and stars and was headed to a small pond she knew, an offshoot from Duck Creek. A mother had to trust her daughter, but she knew that with winter drawing to a close the frozen waters could be unsafe. The natural world could help you—clear, clean water and fresh, bracing air could refresh you after working in an overheated cabin for hours—but the water could drown you, too.

One had to always be aware of the water spirits, especially a mother. Not her Dorothy. One morning five years earlier, Dorothy had stopped only long enough to put on her worn red mitts and ragged coat before she ran out to follow her brother to go skating with cousins. She knew her brother, Tawit, would be crossing the bridge, named for De Pere, Wisconsin. Locals knew of it; merchants just thought of it as a reach beyond the big apple orchards outside of Green Bay. And there was always little Strawberry Island, where she enjoyed swimming. She was a good swimmer. Though in the Land of Lakes, there was no lake near the Ninham cabin, just arctic weather and one wide, curvy, very long creek.

Jumping a small pond, with her heavy skates over her shoulder, she fell straight through the snow into an ice hole that had been cut for a milk cow to drink from. Backtracking, he caught a glimpse of her red mitten sticking out above the hole. She woke to the crackling of flames inside the cookstove and her mother rubbing her vigorously to bring her back to life. She had no memory of having seen him cry before. How in all Wisconsin had he gotten her home?

He was only three years older. She recovered and went skating the very next day. Such were the little pleasures afforded to her on the rez. Each day her mother made the long walk to town to search for work, any work, just to earn a nickel. Make their breakfast and make their lunches. The one pleasure in washing corn before daylight was watching the stars, which she never thought of as three sisters or a big handle, as her Mormon teacher referred to them. Those were not their names to an Oneida. Her mother recalled some of the Oneida language and she called them the star nations.

They were beautiful and far away and they were watching over Dorothy. She had to prepare the noon meal of corn soup before leaving for school, so she lagged far behind the others. He always seemed to start a conversation, if you could call it that, just as he pulled the tab on his Milwaukee beer, corn of another kind, with a smell and effect that Dorothy thought were awful. For the rest of her life that familiar hiss when a beer was popped open would be a bad omen. It meant ill will and a broken life, that was all she ever needed to know about it. It is the most important thing to have. She got the other children up and dressed.

Like the others, she had two sets of clothes, one for summer and one for winter; one worn pair of underclothes served both seasons. There were mitts and old ill-fitting coats, and that was all. As she dressed, she heard old Luther come up to the door loudly looking for breakfast. This was a rare annoyance; even when drunk out of his mind, he knew to stay clear of her mother, though he would harass her brother and sisters something awful. So Dorothy sent them off running and proceeded to beat at Luther with a broken broom handle. He got hold of the end of it, but she jerked it back and beat around his head so hard he lost his bearings and rolled down the hill till the stone well casing stopped him.

After tiptoeing close enough to smell the stink of malt and see that Luther was breathing, she ran back to the cabin to grab her coat and stuff a biscuit in her own pocket. Then she paused at the cabin door, ran back inside, and grabbed an old blanket to throw over Luther. Though she loved the books and enjoyed the company of the other girls at school, she was always glad at the end of the day to be out of the hands of the Mormons and back at the cabin. But approaching it today, she saw her mother sitting at the end of their road by a stack of their few belongings.

She came closer and leaned over to look into their one metal pot, which should have held the corn soup for supper. Out of respect she let her mother speak first. Go get your sisters. We will have to hurry. We have a ways to walk. Do we have a place? Hours down the road, her mother stopped suddenly, told her daughters to wait, and darted into the woods. She returned to say excitedly that she had found a cabin, and it was empty. Dorothy went in first.

The single window had a tree limb growing through it, and cobwebs and dust were everywhere. The wind was starting to blow snow outside. Melinda used some store of inner strength to pull at tree limbs and break them with her foot until they had a little firewood. There was no stove, so they made a fire on the packed-earth floor and huddled around it. It was just a matter of time. After a few days of squatting there, they begin to walk again.

Her mother had a cousin, June, who had married a Mormon. She was not wealthy by any stretch, but maybe she had a barn they could sleep in for a bit. The youngest could cry on a dime, and they could make use of her tears. She knocked and could smell food being cooked. Aunt June looked put out as she came to the door, then tried to peer down the road, but it had grown too dark. The barn, she explained, was crammed with their threshing equipment and winter store. Not an inch to fit a single soul into it. It was pretty clear that if her husband got a word in, it would be no. She mentioned before shutting the door that she had a little space heater she could run out and a few blankets.

Melinda Ninham had already started up the road, leaving their belongings in a heap behind her. They could see after them later. I have to get out of the snow. When are you going to have a baby? Earlier, Dorothy had found a small axe and cut low pine boughs to make a bed for them all in the coop and borrowed a little hay from the barn. They had snuggled close together to provide some warmth before Dorothy got up to go outside with the infant.

June had also brought them a cloth napkin with four biscuits, a slab of honey, and two cold chicken legs. But it was a fine feast for the smaller girls. What was available in abundance was the feeling of love, and there was no greater gift at such a family time. Even their sadness communicated love, and the small sustenance of food and a little warmth did, too. They were still together, and that was about it. It was always enough. Dorothy had assisted in an event that in her limited experience was beyond describing. When the serious moaning started, she no longer had to beg the stubborn chickens to leave.

As Dorothy started to panic and dart for the main house, Melinda pulled her in close and assured her she had done this four times already and nature would help. Dorothy stayed to her side. The baby cooed while she did this and had not cried more than once. She was already cooperating with her new family, Dorothy thought. How good of her new baby sister to help her out in her first hours here. Hours later, standing in the light snowfall with the baby in her arms, Dorothy thanked the Creator that both her mother and sister had lived through it.

Always of a mind to show gratitude even in the most unlikely of circumstances, she had named the little infant June. With daylight, Aunt June would learn what had transpired and immediately take mother and baby into the house. Not until morning, though. And just them. Much later, Dorothy would ask her mother about her own mother for the first time. That subject was never discussed, and Dorothy had never known why. In all hurtful situations, it is the one harmed who needs to be the first to do the talking.

Melinda shared the one and only thing she knew about her mother, which was that she had died giving birth to her. Dorothy, not sixteen, was told she was not old enough to visit her in the hospital. Dorothy told him that it was not to say goodbye, but so she could heal her. She knew she could. Tawit explained that every bone in her body had been broken and she was just holding on to say goodbye, holding on hard. The hospital, however, stuck to its cruel policy. If you ever need me, just look up. Please take care of my children for me. You have always been my brave girl, the rock on which I could rest. Dorothy left the cement hospital stoop with her brother and set out to face her uncertain future, determined to keep the family together as her mother had asked.

Tawit seemed to be in deep thought as his young sister carried a burden too big for her small broken heart. Soldiers do, say it happens even on battlefields. But our mom never saw her mother or heard her voice. How did she know it was her? His father had come home from the war and married another woman, and Dennis had seen very little of him in his young life. Maybe one who knew his circumstances. His mother, Bertha, was pretty, quiet, and a good homemaker, though they had little.

They were Ojibwe people on Leech Lake, Minnesota. She threw her nets out with the menfolk, and when he got old enough, Dennis did, too. She noticed his clothes were getting raggedy and before making him a school outfit from a flour bag, she decided to go to the Indian agency. It had an allowance for clothes, and she needed it, so why not ask? He recalled the long walk into town, over ten miles, and it felt like a walk around the world to a boy. He could still hear her raised voice. Then they made the long walk home.

The next day a sheriff knocked on their door. There were none. Yes, owed. This broke his heart, and he stopped resisting, not knowing her heart was breaking, too. His first school was Pipestone, in Minnesota, at barely the age of four. Dennis Banks would be in more than one Indian school over many years, and his second was Wahpeton, in North Dakota.

The school had a rather large population of Sioux Indians, ushered in out of the local Sisseton Sioux Agency. That meant he knew a lot of Lakota early on in life. He was eleven. He stood in a big hall for morning roll call. He would be wrong about that. The mic hissed like a snake and roll call began. Poor innocent Angela Dog Skin had been made to think her name was despicable. She was strict and cold and in charge. If you went into town for a movie, ate a piece of pie, or learned a prayer, it was under her aegis and approval.

Mister Winters spent his days mainly with the dairy farm on campus, as they had a good one. Students spent half their academic days working the farm, the other half, dead tired, in what existed as classes. The school years were long and visits from loved ones rare. Many years later, Dennis Banks would learn that this was one of the easier schools. The activities at others were unbearable and often unmentionable, though it would not always stay that way. Some students simply never returned home, and families were informed well after the fact, if at all.

Though their languages had disappeared for these Indian children, one reason the traditional names had not was that too much government paperwork and too many rules were tied to them. Determined though the prevailing culture was to erase Indians, in this they had to acknowledge a small defeat. At roll call every sunrise, Dennis was transported back home by the sound of those splendid names. Roll call was one long word of Indian-speak. Only a select few dared do this. It set you apart. Then too hard to carve his full name with an instrument too awkward for his hand, Dennis managed a small d and a large B. A few others had had the guts to carve their last names, which was tantamount to self-incrimination.

When caught, Dennis had admitted to it, and so he got the same whipping as the named carvers. Dennis had learned early on how to stand up for himself. Indian school was the real school of hard knocks. No one was going to do it for you, not in this life. No one ever seemed to notice—not then, and not for the rest of his life—that Dennis was not a big fellow. The fight inside him was bigger than he was. During the whipping Dennis drew the attention of a girl, but not just any girl.

From somewhere near Anadarko, Oklahoma, Anita was a high school freshman when Dennis was just eleven. She was famous at the school and read to the younger kids once in a while and was a kind of mother to some of them, though Dennis did not view her that way. Because she had no family, she did not go home during the school year and had no visitors on visiting days. Neither did he. Visitation took place under a big tree, not in a room. Cars pulled up to it twice a month on Sundays, and picnic lunches were unwrapped from newspaper or Sears and Roebuck catalog pages. These were fun to read or look at the funny pages, as it was the only contact from the outside world. School friends shared more than the funny pages with Dennis; occasionally they said their relatives were his as well, and he joined their families under the tree.

Often, Dennis said, letters were not passed on from his mother. Dennis would spend visiting days with Anita and a few others when he could manage to get away from his dorm and over to theirs. He managed often. Anita was called an orphan by the Wahpeton teachers, and they thought of her as something of a black sheep. She had come from the farthest away and likely belonged at another school in another territory, but her adoptive parents were white Indians, mix bloods as they were called, from out of the plains. For some reason they had left her—car accident maybe, drunkenness, or death. No one knew why. The Great Depression had something to do with it. Anita came out of the dust bowl, she said, and she imagined a big tunnel of dust spitting her out and rolling her to a stop at the foot of the Indian school door.

She had no memory of parents. She was a dust baby. Whenever she saw dust on something, it reminded her that that was her people. Until Wahpeton. As she grew older, she acquired a treasure trove of Indian history and was a regular outlaw at sharing it. Why she would be so enthusiastic about this, none of them knew, but a strange world where she just might fit in began to draw her in. She became practically a savant, gathering any information she could about any and all tribes. For instance, her last name. Turned out, when making the government rolls, many southern plains Indians ended up with the name Harja or Harjo. Anita was told it was the word for hard fighter. It became a common name. No number of switches could make her give it up. Anita had become her own version of a teacher, self-appointed in a school whose teachers hated what she was teaching.

She was threading something, gathering a little bit here and there. Old Lady Winters liked her and called her Miss Contrary. The Oklahoma girl became expert at hiding knowledge and knew just when to spill it. Anita Harjo was a beauty, too, which meant she could get away with a lot. She was brown-skinned, pink-cheeked, and had silky black hair that the teachers cut and cut, but it grew back fast. Once she started keeping it in a tight knot, they seemed to forget it was long.

She always let it down when she was sharing stories, making the younger boys plain dizzy at the sight of its tumble. Dennis would skip a meal to hear her speak, as their rest periods and lunch periods were at different hours. The minute Old Lady Winters forced it into her mouth, Angela would spit it out. Then Anita walked up and gently took the spoon from the hateful old woman, who gave it over with that false smile.

Mercy was a beautiful thing, young Dennis thought, and so was rescue. Dennis realized that a mother was the most beautiful thing on earth. They were the life-bringers and protectors, just as Anita always said. Most all Indian ceremonies re-created this for their people in some form or fashion. It all meant the same thing: honor life and the mother that brings it. Once, catching Dennis missing his mealtime, Anita took half a sandwich from her pocket and handed it to him without missing a beat in her lesson on the Apache. All Dennis could focus on now was the touch of her hand and that she had singled him out.

He followed Anita to their favorite spot. Another river, the Ottertail, was nearby and he thought he could hear the running water from their hiding place. Moments alone with his own had been worth it, the small boy thought. Something was making choices for him, something forged out of this pain, born of his lost youth. Anita had been talking of soldiers, right before the old witch showed up, and mentioned one had been kind to an Indian girl, whose name sounded like Too-Mah-Quah.

Who do you think them are? Well, if Anita was proud to be one, he was, too. He acted out of instinct and ran. Dennis would leave Indian boarding school and go straight into the air force as planned. The year he did, Leonard Peltier arrived at Wahpeton. Leonard, too, would be dragged from his home and into a government vehicle. It was the first time he ever saw his grandmother lose a fight. She argued so loudly with the government driver in their yard that day that it brought young Leonard out from hiding in the woods to see to her rescue or to help in the fight.

Hours later the government driver offered his weeping little sister a sandwich while on the way to Wahpeton. When she went to refuse it, Leonard reached for it and stuffed it into his pocket. He watched out the back window for four hours trying to memorize the turns until he realized there was no finding his way back home when traveling this far.

Leonard was trying to slow her down when a matron came over. He thought the woman was there to help, but she had come to separate them again. Siblings were not allowed to be together. Betty Ann began to cry. Later, Leonard Peltier would escape from Wahpeton and trek through a long wood, then try to run across an ice floe. Hours later, wet and cold, he just gave in and walked right up to the people out hunting for him. He was infamous for that daredevil attempt that ended in his having to decide whether to freeze to death or surrender. For hours, Leonard Peltier was almost the boy who got away. Dennis Banks later recalled, when sharing his story of Wahpeton, that he could always hear some child screaming down a hall at nighttime, the sound haunted him for years.

He thinks the child was him. He wondered if the name itself had once, in some small way, reached out to him and sheltered him with another meaning. Something had made choices for him, something forged out of this hardship, born of his loss. It instilled in him that which could never be taken away. He would run into Anita Harjo again, many years later, but she would be so altered by that time that he would not even recognize her. He was used to new circumstances and long waits, even though he was just twentyone. Instead, just look for a water source. Knee-deep in a Carolina swamp, he raised his wet hoe handle, his hard hands bloody with blisters, and spotted a familiar slithering motion not far away.

A soft-bellied creature letting him know whose domain it really was. He imagined he was a POW and not in his own country. An Indian boy who heard that his homeland was under attack would always grab a weapon and run to do battle. In all US wars, Indians had joined first. Herb had joined at age fifteen. Never needed no draft letter, he thought. He felt the same way about his current situation. None of them counted. He watched Korean fishermen cover their lanterns with paper fans and throw out their nets in the morning fog and in his mind, he saw his own fishermen, Chippewa brothers from back home with night lanterns in their longboats on Lac Du Flambeau, his lake.

He missed his mother, though he knew she did not miss him; maybe his sisters did. The squatty horseman guarding them looked to be holding his rifle more like a trophy than a weapon, and Herb wished the guy would turn on him. For now, he gave himself a reminder that this was a system better lived through than fought. Herb preferred a good fight. He daydreamed about meeting up with Mister Boss Man somewhere else. Carrying this chip on his shoulder helped him get through the swamp and the days that followed with hard work, hate, and his own brand of silence. One day soon he would dare anyone who noticed that chip to try and knock it off. He saw the yellow snake slither by again.

Indians believed all that moved had a spirit and therefore deserved respect. He let it pass. The water moved, the grass in the wind, the trees, and this damn snake. Only alcohol could push back down the kind of anger that filled Herb Powless. The judge seemed to intentionally bang the gavel a little harder than usual, maybe checking to see if Lance Corporal Herb Powless was deaf. At one minute after, you got three years on a prison gang. If you had a dark complexion, you automatically got midnight burglary, whatever the hour. If they did, they might have to put themselves on trial. The whole damn town was named after invaders. Except the waterways outside, which mostly carried Indian names. He got three years on a chain gang in South Carolina and was still in his marine uniform when they hooked up the belly chains.

The hot sun reflected off his medal from the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir, bouncing light onto the courthouse clock as they walked him down the back steps. No point in upsetting any residents milling around out front. A marine uniform was common in this town, even if the looks of Herb Powless were not. Herb endured the three years of what might have broken any other man and put it behind him as quickly as the wind pushed his old Chevy past the greatest of American lakes toward his old homestead. A few days later, some friends took him out to nearby Oneida, and he found himself leaning against a wall at a community hall dance—swarthy, disinterested, and ready to raise hell.

He spotted Dorothy Ninham right away. She was small and quick and a pretty little thing, Herb noted. Indian kids went door to door, but not likely they saw candy, maybe a wrinkled apple wrapped in a newspaper, a treat to them. Herb could tell the young Oneida girl in his gaze was the hardest worker there as she lugged an iron pot of chili to a folding table. It smelled good, and he suspected she had made it. She laughed easy, like a girl should, until she caught him looking at her. He asked around and found out she was one of the Ninham girls. She already knew he was a Powless. Everyone there knew a Powless. Instinctively she knew his stare, though sober, was hard. She barely raised her eyes before looking quickly away. Then she surprised a young boy who was trying to spike a few cups of Kool-Aid by flinging a handful of ice water in his face.

The boy scurried off, just wet enough to douse his collar and his pride. When she came back to the table with a tray of corn bread, she looked around for Herb. He caught her glance and laughed, making her face go pink. Herb figured that meant she was innocent and modest as well, and a little mad. Yeh, Indian girl all the way. Though not a big man, Herb was all man, and Dorothy had enough instinct to spot that.

Dorothy Ninham did not dwell long on the handsome Powless, as she and her girlfriend turned up their Dr Peppers and took a swig. After all, she was leaving the next day for Milwaukee and would likely not see him again, or so she thought. A friend from school had secured them both jobs at a fancy big hotel making beds, for fifty cents a bed. Standing dead center in it was a familiar shape. My goodness, she thought. It was Herb Powless staring up at the building. Her cheeks turned hot. How dare he follow her! She ran straight down the six flights of stairs to confront him. The confrontation lasted only minutes, as she was a dependable worker and got right back to her post, but not before agreeing to meet him later.

Dorothy was destined to be his. There was a lot he hid from her, but eventually she knew more about him than he shared with anybody else alive. Having one person to burden with that much trust was enough. Herb Powless had already seen enough and had enough. All while feeling the love from under the branches of Wisconsin apple trees and the breeze off little Strawberry Island. But today the still air hangs heavy, and the deafening buzz of cicadas cuts through the smog drifting across the bombed-out Japanese island.

Airman Dennis Banks leans his back against the Quonset hut where he sits in a squat almost every day. The hut serves as shelter and provides the only shade. He stubs out another Camel cigarette on a concrete block and counts the small white dots on the filter, refusing to let the boredom take him. But still, it takes him. His high cheekbones and the almond-shaped eyes of his Anishinaabe ancestors just get him accused of being part Japanese. His new young wife is all of that—Japanese, that is—but he is an American Indian from Leech Lake, Minnesota, whatever called.

He is quite handsome but rarely smiles unless off base or at home leaning over his new baby girl. He feels undistinguished in either of his new roles, but as is usual with the US government, the choices are all theirs. Two years earlier, to his shock and dismay, and later maybe relief, his whole platoon got lined up one day without explanation. Get your affairs in order and wait for your new orders! Other men in his company stayed stateside, but at this time in his life, Dennis was very patriotic, and it was a relief to remain on active duty. Dennis had spent more than half his life so far in an institution, three different Indian boarding schools, and now the military was just a continuation.

Both had prepared him for boredom, as well as for words such as chow hall, commissary, visiting room, and disciplinary action. Boredom was a good motivator to teach escape, letting him delve daily into his own keen mind. He was very curious about the Japanese people and observed them closely. Too close for the air force. Relentlessly daydreaming, Dennis sits against the hut and peers out into a rice paddy. He imagines the grand house that he plans to build back home in Minnesota, near his lake, for himself and Machiko and their new baby daughter.

All around him are the sounds of farmers and families and the bustle of country life, and it makes him lonesome for his own village at Leech Lake. He shakes off that memory, never wanting to go back there, not even in his thoughts. Military service came soon after school ended. He was only seventeen and one hundred percent devoted. But now, the only allegiance he feels strongly about is to his wife and child.

He wants out. He is not a draftee but a volunteer. Come to that, almost every Indian he ever met in service had done the same. Happy to volunteer, maybe due to the harsh poverty back home or glad to finally feel useful at something they were good at. They were good at fighting. Or good at volunteering. Second Lieutenant Walter White Bear suddenly plops down beside him and tells him he may get his wish for a break in the monotony. White Bear is from Pine Ridge, South Dakota, and despite his young age is already a decorated Korean War vet and in the air force for life.

White Bear looks as skin as Dennis does, as they refer to themselves, so they hang together when possible. Fraternizing between ranks is frowned upon, but out in this field, nobody notices. What is a Japanese civilian? Wait till you see them come at ya! You know what a civvie is? Shit for brains. It was different that I was an Indian from America. Machiko told me later that her father said words used to say I was of equal value. When does that happen in my own country? Who cares who they hate? You are sworn to protect one thing, the U. The instant respect was euphoric, and all in his eyes! The locals made holes behind their homes, commodes, installed so they could ultimately carry them off and use the contents to fertilize the farmland. These people wasted nothing, not even their waste.

Smart people. On that note, Dennis knows he himself is wasting away here. Better yet, hang close to me today. He is better than his superiors at all their games—chess, drinking, cards, girls, even their war games when it comes to that. Why take a Japanese admiral into Korean waters? Only one who knew the way and could get them in. Walter hops to his feet, lightly for a man of his weight, and saunters off. After all, he had a perfect record. So when it came to love, to the little bit of family Dennis Banks had, rebellion came just as naturally to him as conformity. He had studied with work in Intelligence and it led to higher opportunities and got him permanently out of latrine duty. Things were looking up for his service record, until … love.

Dennis took to Shinto and was drawn into the language. He was pulled towards the mystery of their primeval woods and mountain monasteries where monks lived back on high cliffs. His wife would translate the stories of a great people for him, and he found that he never wanted to fight them again. Hell, why would he want to shoot at someone who looked like his own grandfather? It was his only option, but he would need a plan for how to hide out in a country that was not his. They were pushing him to it. Then he met sweet, beautiful Machiko. She was proud of him, a reflection of the way that Japanese people commonly cared about indigenous people. He learned later the words were a declaration of love at first sight.

Loved for who he was, no longer in spite of it. The feeling was mutual. Suddenly he was surrounded by people who were eager to meet him. It was intoxicating because it was not only genuine acceptance, but all so instantaneous. He felt pride well up. Without a word to them, they already knew what he was, and they liked it, too. Dennis only relaxed socially when around GIs like himself. He met two from California, both of Chinese ethnicity, and a few Native brothers, and there was Daniel Ivory, a Black man saddled with that name. Dennis watched their handlers make a field day out of it any chance they got. And there was White Bear, but his attitude was different. Then in a single day Dennis was suddenly not just equal but was apparently perceived as exceptional.

He was way too inexperienced to put it together that after losing a war, he was facing people occupied by the same mentality that occupied him. Ancient ways and beliefs scoffed at. And yet they were equally exceptional. Talk about waste. He made his own plan, to make a place to hide out, and simply to get home somehow, get a good job, and be a civilian. Build that dream home in Minnesota and raise his family. The Japanese civilian protestors begin gathering before sunup. Unless their drums counted, and they should count, Dennis thinks. The drummers lead the protestors. There are many Buddhist monks and nuns in odd garb, looking somehow ominous and not at all Western. Others have closely shaved heads and white face paint.

Their singing is a high-pitched monotone that causes a wave of sound—not singing, more like movement. There are so many of them, a few thousand or more by the time they are done gathering. Dennis had taken to their language quickly and can read some of the signs. Walter pulls out his handbook of five easy lessons in Japanese and is struggling to interpret. Then the Japanese police arrive in their new Americanmanufactured jeeps.

Clearly, the airmen and American guard patrols are on-site to support them. Then the Japanese police unleash their dogs on the monks and nuns. Dennis has a weapon, of course, and Walter looks poised to begin an all-out one-man military assault. Unfortunately for him, he is about to rain it down on his own unit, on those that are pointing to the civilians. If one knew Walter, this action was unthinkable. Everyone freezes that can see his stance, which saves Walter White Bear and the assailants, and just confuses the officer in charge. That newly minted second lieutenant was Walter White Bear! One monk looks up at him with pity on his blood-stained face and then he begins to disperse; the rest follow.

The protestors take a while to break up as there are so many of them. But their point has been made, and the nonviolent religious sect seems to lose interest in pursuing it further. They have curled up and taken their blows, never striking back, not one of them. The farmers have been as tough as any fighter Dennis ever witnessed … except for maybe their feral dogs. The occupiers have made their point, too, and likely the airstrip will still go in. Definitely it will. Dennis is deeply affected by this day and will never forget it. These religious indigenous, with their drums and songs and language, have a right to protect their homeland, the farms that feed their families. No war is bigger than that idea, no intruder. Their drums had not stopped, so they had not stopped.

Dennis discovers a personal patriotism that day that has been inside him all along, and with time it will only grow stronger. As Grandpa said, the truth of it has traveled on his blood. The more Dennis experienced, reflecting on both home and abroad, the more he began to understand that freedom, real freedom, was uniquely an American Indian idea. The words Okaerinasai!

White Bear was struck that day by an unexpected change, one of the heart. Show the bastards! He was unaware that the change coming to him would come from within. Only Walter knew it was the nonviolence that struck him through. He knew well these men were great masters, skilled at hand-to-hand combat, out of monasteries or not, they could really fight and yet, they came out this day not to fight. The fight they brought was defense. The word karate itself meant empty hand and the idea was to protect without permanently harming. This was a fight that would change Walter White Bear forever. A real warrior protects, and not always in the way thought. A Movement was coming across Indian land.

And when it did, he would be at civilian level. He and Walter White Bear would see each other again years down the road, outside another small village fighting to protect its land and sacred burial place, an outpost marked on a South Dakota map as Wounded Knee. His hair was so jet black it cast a navy-blue sheen from under the yellow light of the dirty bulb.

And for all the VO5 gel, his curls kept popping back. He traded his oil-stained parka for his prized but well-worn black leather motorcycle jacket. During the workday, he hid it with his other valuables in a rusty drum in the shop. Pulling it on, he headed out to hop onto the tailgate of the last departing truck. All Indians better be carrying that pass if stopped, and they would be stopped, if only for just being Indian. The Turtle Mountain Agency where Leonard was born is a desolate and windswept outpost on the North Dakota plains less than thirty miles from Manitoba, Canada.

Leonard huddled in a tight squat to make room for others getting into the truck. Once they were deep into the rez, there was some talk about taking a six-pack to the gravel pit, a common place to drink, smoke, and meet girls. A gravel pit girl could stick on you and make life even more complicated. She was reputed to be the prettiest girl on the rez, due in part to her green eyes. She was a gentle spirit, sweet natured, quiet, and vulnerable. Though just seventeen, Leonard had the stride of a full-grown man, and hard living went into every step.

Always alert for danger, eyes vigilant, he was nevertheless high-spirited and hopeful. He was a hard worker, and he was unafraid. Both were gifts. Where did complaining get ya? These were not the only ones though, as he influenced many other ruler and most importantly, the French people. He would negative impacts all over the place, but he arguably helped their society as well. Rulers like Robespierre can be prevented through. This conversation between Oedipus and Creon play a significant role in whole drama. Ironically Oedipus who was proud of his position, his power and his throne at the end of the drama loses everything, but Creon who did not want to be a ruler, received an opportunity to be a king.

Life for both of these characters changed dramatically one loses and other one gains, but both in this situation act with honor. Even when Oedipus did mistakes in the past he found strength to accept the truth at the end, and he judge himself. He shows that he has a power to judge who is guilty even if it was him. The power of persuasion is very powerful, people in the past were about to make individuals as well as entire countries bend to their words, an infamous example being Hitler. The act of persuasion may be viewed as something positive or negative depending on the views of a bystander. Some people may utilize persuasion to unite countries together and others may use persuasion to commit atrocities.

Whatever the case is, many people have utilized persuasion to sway people over to their side. New to the presidential office, Truman was presented with the decision of whether to drop the atomic bomb, a choice that today is viewed as controversial, but which at the time was well-received by an American population tired of war. The unexpected death of beloved president FDR placed a difficult burden on Truman to fulfill the expectations of the public when he was inadequately prepared or informed. Thus, he refrained from interrupting the existing plans put into place by the predecessor he admired so greatly, and allowed the momentum of the atomic bomb to continue. Additionally, the amount of resources devoted by the American and British governments to the development of the atomic bomb made Truman reluctant to halt the operation at its.

Do you yearn to get into the deranged minds of criminals like the infamous Jeffrey Dahmer? When you become a highly trained doctor of forensic psychology, you get to do the job of the hit T. V show characters Dr. Reid from Criminal Minds. Police, judges, juries, and lawyers are all unable to determine if felons are mentally insane or fit for trial, nor are they able to counsel victims.

However, the recently sought-after study of forensic psychology is able to consolidate the divide between legal matters and the mental processes of these criminals. Become part of a field that is recognized as one of the most undeniably important parts of today 's legal system by becoming a forensic psychologist Watchel. Stalin, intelligently, used manipulation, and suppressed his testament. However, manipulation was not the only tool that Stalin used to rise to the top. The use of the atomic bomb in World War II was a horrifying site. Although the use of the first bomb on Hiroshima may be justified the use of the second bomb on Nagasaki was not. The use of the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima was a necessary step towards winning the war with Japan. The dropping of this bomb saved many American lives that would have most likely been lost in the war effort had we decided not to use the atomic bomb.

The dropping of this bomb also showed the Japanese that we were not afraid to do what was necessary to win the war and that they should surrender while they had the chance. This masked man shifts the blame on someone else but at the same time, Peltier is not going to tell who the murderer is so it is false and he is really the killer. The officers got their justice and did what they did to get the trial to go their way so killing someone was worth it and justified why they were on the Indian reservation in the first place. Moral boundaries are determined …show more content… Henry Kissinger is a man who was many things such as being a celebrity, National Security Advisor, and a Secretary of the State and he was and is both loved and hated.

Kissinger won a Nobel Peace Prize when in reality he should have won a war prize. It makes no sense making him some kind of superhero. The worldview of Kissinger is that there should not be controversy about this person. With the things that Kissinger did is how hegemony really gets created and started. The winner controls many if not all most of history and what is said. Kissinger had a mixture of power and strategy.

He was brilliant but had the flaw of acting without public scrutiny. He was alienated growing up by the Holocaust and it had an effect on him. He had a personality defect by how he grew up but political power is what fueled the ability to do this. What Kissinger was trying to do and may have sacrificed human lives in the process is international diplomacy. Kissinger was giving and getting information from both sides and telling both sides that they were going to win. He believed that the best peace would be through force, a way to end it quickly. He had a plan for secret bombing of Cambodia. The bombers did not know who they were bombing. Rumors of operation began to reach the surface and be in the media so lots …show more content… Invitation to Globalogy: An Alien Perspective takes on social problems and the authors are political deviants about it.

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