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Jacob Crossno
Dr. Suhr-Sytsma
English 181
February 16, 2016
Chapter Nine and a Half
The fog was clear. Obviously the fog was not clear, but it was not very thick and not very
dense. Theres a tree line in the distance on every side of me, and I can still see every bit. The
sun has barely begun to rise. Im standing in the middle of the road with about thirty to forty
Indians. Men, women, and children. Some are standing. Some are sitting on the ground and some
in outdoor folding chairs. With all these Indians, I assume I must be Indian too.
Whats going on here? I ask a nearby girl.
What do you mean? Im just waiting here just like you, she says.
Why are we waiting? I ask.
Were all here to stop the delivery trucks.
What delivery trucks?
She laughs. Wow, youre really uninformed, arent you? Were going to stop the delivery
trucks from delivering the alcohol to Whiteclay.
What day is it? She thinks Im crazy. Im in someone elses body. I am crazy. What do
I look like? Am I Indian? I look down. Im in the body of a big man with large hands and long
braids.
She doesnt know how to respond. Its February 9th and yes, youre Indian.
What year is it? I ask. It must be close to my real time. Were not old-time Indians, and
I see cell phones.

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She looks concerned and amused. Its 2013.
2013. I have actually gone forward in time. Im in the future. This is great. I wonder if I
can learn about the future before I leave. Like sports wins, the next two elections, or anything I
could make money on. I could convince people I have super powers. I remember Im time
traveling. I must have super powers.
I think about what the girl told me. Were waiting to stop the alcohol delivery trucks. I
wonder what that means.
I look around. I can tell these Indians arent homeless drunken Indians. Theyre families.
Brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers. They look happy. But theyre not the rich and educated
Indians that like to pretend the drunken Indians dont exist either.
I look up to see two young boys running and playing off the road. The smaller one falls
on the ground. He jumps to his feet and runs to his mother. She picks him up. Cradles him. Sings
him a song. Wheres his father?
Now I realize. These arent homeless drunken Indians but the families of drunken
Indians. These Indians are trying to prevent their fathers, brothers, husbands, mothers, sisters,
and wives from getting alcohol by stopping the delivery trucks that give them alcohol through
the local stores.
Here one comes now, everybody, someone shouts. I look up to see an old Indian with
wrinkly skin shouting while everybody around him is looking down the road. I look down the
road and see a large delivery truck that looks like a small spec far in the distance traveling full
speed toward us. Everybody stands up and frantically forms several lines shoulder to shoulder. I
join a line at the end, so my right foot is actually off the road. Im not stupid. Im prepared.

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The truck gets closer and closer and closer. And it only seems to get faster and faster and
faster. Were going to get run over. But everybody still stands. The men have their chests stuck
out like the warriors at the Little Bighorn. The women pick up the children. The old Indians get
tense. Now everybody is scared. Just when all hope is lost, the driver begins to brake. The truck
screeches and skids to a stop within pissing distance of the front line. Sighs. Were alive.
The driver lays on his horn. We all hear it, but nobody moves. The driver who is a
middle-aged white dude in a red cap rolls down the window.
Get the hell out the way, he shouts. But his angry shaking fist seems louder.
An Indian man shouts back in his language. I dont know what he says. But I know what
he means. Were not going anywhere.
For hours, we dont go anywhere. My legs scream. I need to sit down. But only the
children on the ground at the feet of their parents have sat down. And the driver who never stood
up. Its all conversations and songs. Some I understand. Some I dont. The driver leans back and
leans forward and uses his phone and blows the horn occasionally. The driver is pissed. And I am
tired and sore. But the Indians are tenacious.
Finally, the driver gets off the phone one last time and the truck begins to back up. It
turns around slowly, a few wheels rolling off the pavement. And then the truck begins to
disappear down the road from where it came as a sign of surrender.
Cheers. Celebration. Laughter. Songs.
I guess we can go home now, I say to the woman next to me. Im ready to relax in
whatever place this guy I am lives.
No, hes gonna come back, she says.

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A few people remind the crowd things like, It could be a trick! and He might come
back! But the trucks absence lets everybody relax a little. Some sit down. But nobody leaves
far from the edges of the road. I sit on the pavement. The dirty pavement is comfortable.
I look down at a clover growing in one of the cracks in the pavement. Its beautiful and
innocent and simple. It doesnt have a brutal and broken background. I want to be the clover. But
then I realize the clover is in the middle of a road and probably feels lonely. Maybe I dont want
to be a clover. I mean if the clover grows in the middle of nowhere away from all other clovers, it
cant do anything but be alone. Its stuck. But if it grows in the middle of a patch of other
clovers, the clovers are always together. Maybe were all clovers.
Sure enough, without long enough to feel ready for another battle, the driver dude
returns. And we all return to our standing position. Not far behind him, I see flashing lights. Its
day time, but we all see the lights. Red and blue lights. Four squad cars. Eight professional
assholes with badges.
The vehicles stop. The police get out of their cars, and a slim cop walks toward us.
Mr. Clark, youre under arrest, he announces.
But all the Indians stand in front of a guy three people away from me. He must be Clark.
The Indians begin to surround him to protect him from being arrested. Im standing on the side
towards the front of the cluster of people. I feel vulnerable. I wish I was closer to the middle
now. Id feel safer there.
Look guys, protests over. Go home, the slim cop sounds angry and forceful.
Were not going anywhere, an Indian man shouts, Our reservation is dry, and
Whiteclay serves no purpose but to hurt our people. Take their liquor licenses, or were not going
anywhere.

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The cops all walk toward the crowd. Im pretty sure a couple of these cops are Indian.
The slim cop stands face to face with the man who shouted. The cop has a dirty smile. He looks
down and spits on the Indians shoe.
Fuck you, the Indian spits on the cops face.
Its all cries and shouts and beatings. The cops pull their weapons from their holsters and
pull the Indian man to the ground by his hair. Theyre beating him with their weapons.
A woman screams. A little boy breaks free from his mothers holding and runs to his
father whos getting beaten by the cops. The slim cop stops and grabs the little boy. He holds a
taser gun to his neck.
I dont know how to feel. Some part of me, the part of me that is me, Zits, wants to run
away and say whatever. But the part of me that is this protestor wants to do something. I run
forward shouting in a language I dont know to a cop whos sure to kill me.
I scream. I cry. I dont know what to feel. My brain melts. Why would these cops inflict
this violence when these Indians are just peacefully protesting? The Indians arent hurting
anybody. Theyre just protecting themselves and their families. I remember Im in 2013. Why is
there still such violence? It doesnt matter if its all the way back in 1876 on that battlefield with
Custer or in a future battlefield of 2013. There will always be evil people. I think again about
when I was an evil person. When I shot those innocent people in the bank. I realize that was six
years ago from this time. I wonder what happened. Did I really shoot those people? I want to find
out.
I get an electric shock to my chest. And I think I hit the ground before I ever begin to fall.
But I still know. Were not going anywhere.

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Works Consulted
Schilling, Vincent. "Oglala Sioux President Arrested at Whiteclay Protest." Indian Country
Today Media Network. Arthur Raymond Halbritter, 19 June 2013. Web. 01 Feb. 2016.
Associated Press. "Nebraska Activists Scold Commission for Whiteclay Beer Sales." Native
Times. Native American Times 2015, 11 Feb. 2016. Web. 12 Feb. 2016.
The Battle for Whiteclay. Dir. Mark Vasina. Perf. Frank Lamere, Duane Martin Sr., Russell
Means. Green Onion, 2008. YouTube. YouTube, 7 Feb. 2011. Web. 13 Feb. 2016.